Red, Fallen Sun
by SteveGarbage
Summary: The Templar Order has fallen and the faith that had once bound Cain Wygard to it has run out. The Breach and the request of an old friend drew him to the Inquisition. The emergence of the Red Templars gave him new resolve. But not all of the Order has been twisted, an unknown force is drawing both the corrupted and the pure to the west as red lyrium spreads across the world.
1. Chapter 1

**One**

His lungs still burned and the bitter taste of lyrium wouldn't wash out of his mouth no matter how much he drank.

Cain's muscles still felt odd, he couldn't stop coughing and his head pounded. He had only come near the red crystals as he drove his greatsword through the stone-like corrupted flesh that had begun to form on the bodies of the former Templars.

They were once his brothers. But all he saw as they descended upon Haven was an army of grotesque monsters twisted by the red lyrium. Had he not abandoned the order after Kirkwall, he might have been one of them.

He dreaded the next time he would need to take a dose of lyrium. The regular stuff. The blue stuff.

At least the aches of battle and the after-effects of the red lyrium had distracted him from the cold and wind as the column of refugees trudged through knee-deep drifts of snow. Many of the men and women of the Inquisition had been able to escape Haven, although it felt like they had been wandering aimlessly through the Frostbacks for hours. It was the middle of the night, but nobody dared to stop moving forward, wherever forward might lead them.

There had been no sign of the Herald since the battle.

The soldiers had already begun to murmur. But Cain watched the more concerned looks of Trevelyan's inner circle, all of whom showed grave concern. Everyone else had fled and the Herald was left to stand against the monster alone.

They had all seen the corrupted dragon flying high over the peaks back into the west shortly after emerging from the secret tunnels under the chantry. The entire earth had shaken violently as snow and stones tumbled down the side of the mountain and buried Haven.

Trevelyan had obviously survived long enough to at least fire the last trebuchet. But Cain doubted that he would have been able to outlast the wall of snow and ice flowing down upon the town. If he had luckily made it into shelter, he was now buried under hundreds of feet of snow. As good as dead.

He was now just one more lost prophet to the world, an idol the people will no doubt worship for hundreds of years until the deeds and original purpose were buried under the legend. The legend would twist to serve what political cause was needed at the time and the original deeds and purpose of the man would be relegated to history books that scholars will one day regard as unverifiable myth in the face of a more popular retelling.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of rifts still peppered the land, but the Breach had been closed. Perhaps the mages or the remaining faithful of the Templars could find some way to close the smaller ones, in time.

The rifts had felt strange to Cain the first time he approached one, nothing like he had ever experienced before. He had been to places where the Veil was weak, he had fought demons and felt the pulse of arcane power as a mage was transformed into an abomination. The energy of the rifts was similar, but altogether foreign. The anti-magic skills Cain had learned across years of training and ingestion of lyrium seemed to have no effect on the rifts. In places where the Veil was weak, a surge of energy could help drive back whatever might be waiting on the other side and temporarily strengthen the barrier.

But a tear was something beyond his capabilities to mend. Only the Herald had been able to do that, and only because of the glowing mark upon his hand.

The wind had picked up and the path ahead was near whiteout conditions. But they were approaching a rocky cropping and it looked as if the column before him was slowing. Maybe they were planning to set up camp, tend to the wounded as best they could and get some fires going to try to prevent the majority of people from freezing to death. It was getting so cold, Cain wouldn't have minded one of the rebel mages bathing him in a cone of fire for a few seconds just to warm up. Ice had formed in the goatee around his mouth and lances of frost streaked through his onyx hair.

Commander Cullen was stomping his way through the snow to the back of the column, giving directions on where to send up and issuing orders to soldiers. As he got back to Cain, he stopped.

"Cain," Cullen said, shaking his hand. "I'm glad you made it out alive."

"Same," he said. He didn't want to think or speak much more about the red horrors that had rained down on Haven. He assumed Cullen didn't either.

His assumption was obviously right as the commander seamlessly transitioned into his orders. "They're setting up camp further ahead, but I need some men to fan out and search for the Herald. I don't know what happened back there, but if he's still alive, we need to find him."

"If the stories I've heard about him surviving a leap forward in time to the end of the world and back are true, I wouldn't bet against him," Cain said.

"Nor I." Cullen's face had bent into one of concern. Usually the general was more restrained than that, hiding his feelings from others much better than that. But it was cold and late and the Inquisition might be on the verge of collapse if they didn't make it out of the mountains. "Small parties. We're fanning out to cover the most ground back toward Haven, make a straight line out as far as you can go and then turn around and come straight back if you don't find anything. Two blasts on a horn if you find him."

"I'll see what I can find, commander," Cain said.

Cain turned around and pointed himself slightly to the southeast back toward Haven and began walking. The people he passed looked oddly at him - he was going the wrong way, after all - so he kept his head down to try to fight off the wind as best he could.

He could barely feel his feet under him anymore, if not for the good, thick fur of the Ferelden-made boots. He pulled his cloak around him tighter and re-tied the belt at his waist.

The standard-issue breastplate of the Templars and the thick padding underneath undoubted would have been warmer. The veterans always joked to the raw recruits that the flaming sword of Andraste emblazoned on the front would keep them warm on those long nights standing guard outside in winter. But when he cast aside his oaths, he had returned the armor too.

He hated the Frostbacks. Redcliffe wasn't exactly a mountain town, but close enough to the range and the south that bitterly cold winters often swept over Lake Calenhad. Cain could remember slowly watching as the edges of the lake began to ice over during the worst winters, locking the ships into harbor for the rest of the season.

But the winter always reminded him of hunger. There had been far too many winters where food was scarce growing up and the cold and wind brought out vivid memories of his rumbling stomach.

Cain passed a soldier with a bloodied arm that was leaking through his wrappings and Cain could smell that hint of red lyrium again. The bitter, chalky taste on his tongue flared again and he shuddered as an odd tingle washed through him. Most of the people were unharmed, but in the rear of the column he spotted several that wouldn't survive until morning.

Some of the stragglers were carrying or pulling people that were already dead, others had fallen in the snow and were unceremoniously left there. A pitiful and sad way for a life to end, fallen in the mountains with no one around. But there was little Cain or any of the others could do. There was a good chance they'd all freeze, if not tonight, in a day or two.

"Are you going to look for him?"

Cain lifted his head to see a young man who had stopped in the snow to address him. He had a few cuts and scrapes on his face and the left side of leather armor was torn apart by slashes that he was lucky to have survived.

He carried a sword, one obviously given to him out of the forge at Haven and a wooden shield too that had far less nicks and chunks out of it than his armor. He wasn't a professional soldier, that showed. But he was clearly Fereldan by his look and voice, somewhere from the north by his accent, maybe Highever.

"Aye. Orders from the commander." Cain waved him over. "There's fires and food up ahead, but if you'd rather trudge back a few miles in the snow, I'd be happy for the company."

The young man didn't hesitate. "I saw him, you know. The Herald of Andraste standing alone against that darkspawn and the archdemon. I don't know how he could stand there like there. I probably would have pissed my armor."

Charming, Cain thought. Now that he spoke more, maybe he was from Denerim. Maybe one of the poor quarters of the city as he got a closer look at the youngster. He was too young to be fighting, Cain thought. Either came out of a blind belief in the Inquisition or an opportunity to get a hot meal now and again.

"Even a seasoned soldier would have trouble standing steady in that fight," Cain said. "Much less someone your age. I was a little bit older than you when I started fighting and could barely force myself to lift my shield."

"You fought in the Blight then?" He might be young, but he wasn't totally oblivious. From his tone it sounded like he hadn't seen much of the darkspawn during the Fifth Blight though, so Denerim was probably wrong. Not Highever, certainly, but maybe one of the poorer villages in the northern Bannorn.

"I grew up in Redcliffe, signed on with the Irregulars. Worked a few protection jobs, bodyguarding, boring stuff that kept me far away from trouble. Our company tangled with a few groups of darkspawn in the south. After that I was lucky to get signed on with a Kirkwaller noble who was heading back the Marches. Go out of Ferelden before I tasted much of the Blight."

The rest of his family had gotten the worse end of the deal. Father and all three of his sisters, killed. Or worse.

"I'm Dominic, by the way," the youngster said.

"Cain Wygard."

"You're a Templar?" As the next question poured out in sequence, Cain was beginning to regret asking the young man along.

"That's a complicated answer, nowadays. I trained as a Templar, swore my oaths to the Order and I still take the lyrium. But I don't even know what the Order is now. Some Templars still protect the Chantrys and the people, some roam the countryside like bandits and then there are those … things."

He could taste the bitterness on his tongue again, although the cold was distracting him from the headache he had developed. The pounded had subsidized, but there was a lingering dizziness and nausea that was beginning to settle in its place.

Far in the back of his consciousness, a pulsing, almost like faint music. Discordant and barely there, but still, he could hear it on the edges of his thoughts.

"Well it's good you're with the Inquisition," Dominic said.

"I wouldn't be if it weren't for Commander Cullen."

"You two friends?"

Cain chuckled. "I don't know that the commander has many friends. Maybe I'm closer than most. We served together in Kirkwall when I joined the Order."

"Wait, you were in Kirkwall?" Dominic's eyes lit up excitedly.

"I know, I can't seem to keep away from the trouble. Not half as frightening as darkspawn, but certainly not a fun period in my life either."

He could still remember the way the entire city shook as the magic tore up out of the Chantry and blew into the sky. Pieces of stone fell like flaming meteorites across the entire city, smashing through building and killing the unlucky in the street who couldn't get out of the way.

He had been sitting at the edge of the docks, watching the ships come in and out of the port. The lapping of the water and the snapping of canvas always reminding him of his youth in Redcliffe. The burning bits of the cathedral pierced the entire quarter of the city.

Before he knew it, the Knight Commander had ordered the entire Circle annulled. The entire city erupted into chaos - mages and Templars killing each other in the streets, demons possessing mages and killing indiscriminately.

And then everything that happened in the courtyard of the Gallows. Knight Commander Meredith trying to seize the Champion. Statues coming to life and tearing apart the courtyard. The red lyrium petrifying her.

"I try not to think about it too much. Commander Cullen asked that we all stay on to try to retain some sort of order in the city. We did for a while, but then the Lord Seeker declared the Templars no longer held any allegiance to the Chantry. Cullen said he wouldn't hold us to our vows, but hoped we would stay.

"I had had enough of the Templars after that ordeal. Harrowings. Blood mages. Red lyrium. I decided to come back to Ferelden. Barely even made it home to Redcliffe before all this," he made an sweeping motion in front of him with a hand, not indicating anything directly, "started happening. What a mess."

Dominic nodded and pulled his legs up through a particularly deep drift of snow. He was a head shorter than Cain and having a harder time keeping up. "But the Herald of Andraste. I mean, sent out of the Fade by the Bride of the Maker herself! I had to come join the Inquisition after hearing that!"

Cain snorted quietly to himself. "If it is true." he thought.

But this was a bright-eyed youngster. He had no idea what he was getting himself into. He was lucky to survive Haven. Maybe if he was lucky he'd survive the night too. But if the Herald was dead as he expected, that faith would run dry pretty quickly.

Dominic stumbled and caught himself in the snow with one hand. Cain extended a hand down and helped pull him back to his feet as the young man shivered.

He'd find out the truth soon enough.

He wouldn't need Cain to talk down to him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

The aged towers jutted into sapphire skies, but Cain had opted to surround himself with the flapping of canvas tents in the wind and the smell of campfires.

Skyhold was an impressive bastion, for sure. Why someone had chosen to build such a stalwart fortress so deep in the mountains, he couldn't guess. Despite the wind and snow this high up, the stone walls and towers were in better condition than he might have expected.

It had been the middle of the night when the Herald of Andraste stumbled into the camp. Cain and Dominic had wandered until the footsteps of the Inquisition soldiers had faded into snow drifts and began to turn around when the horn blasts rocked the mountains.

"_Alive. Unbelievable," _Cain had thought.

If Trevelyan wasn't actually divinely touched, he was at least devilishly lucky.

The recruits were pacing back and forth, practicing footwork and throwing attacks and parries back at each other. Some of these men appeared to be soldiers, but many were raw. Too raw to be anything more than corpses if another pitched battle broke out, Cain thought.

Dominic was in the latter category, as Cain ran them through some exercises.

"Soldiers aren't creative," he drilled. "The first strike you face is likely going to come at your left side, chest high as they charge. If your shield isn't up to protect your flank, you'll be dead before you even get the first opportunity to swing that shiny sword."

The first line of recruits stepped forward, throwing a slash from their right side. The line across from them stepped back and lifted their shields to block it.

As he had expected, many of the soldiers who were wounded in the mountains never made it to Skyhold. The cold, the stress of the march and the thinner air in the elevation all took their toll.

The mage healers did what they could, but by the end of the first night, they were exhausted and some on the verge of collapse themselves. The more traditional healers patched what they could, but they lacked supplies after having to flee Haven in an instant. Trevelyan had managed to save the herbalist Adan, but the potions, poultices and herbs were all lost to flame.

"For some of you recruits, that shield is going to be the only thing that keeps your head on your shoulders. Now the other way!"

The blocking line stepped forward throwing a slow slash, while the others lifted their shields to block. Everything was happening at about half speed, as he had designed. Letting a teen with a practice sword try to go at normal pace was like trying to guide a wild druffalo.

"A piercing wound only needs to be inches deep to be fatal. A stabbing strike is much easier to land and much harder for your enemy to block. You can stab a man while still hiding behind that pretty shield of yours. Right line, slash! Left line, block and stab! Go!"

The recruits slowly went through the motions, tossing loping strikes. The others caught it on their shield and thrust the dulled blades forward, touching the chests of their partners. Several had pulled their shields far to the left sides of their body, despite Cain repeating for the last three days to keep it tight into their chest.

He walked down the line to the third grouping, stopping before the two young men who had come from Orlais. They had said they had practiced swordfighting with each other daily for the last year and giggled. Cain was becoming blatantly aware they were talking about the kind of sparring Orlesian dandies did in their bedchambers, not on the battlefield.

He grabbed the shield and pushed it hard up against the young man's chest. "Raoul, I swear to the Maker if you keep floating that shield out there like a kerchief, I'm going to send you right back to Val Useless where you came from."

The Orlesian was already dripping in sweat and they had just started their exercises. He certainly wasn't familiar with physical exertion. Cain didn't know where he came from, but he was no soldier. "Yes, instructor. Sorry, ser."

Cain stepped out of the line. "Left, attack. Right, defend. Again!" They moved. Raoul's partner - Alber? Alain? Artur? Whatever it was - at least kept his shield in tight as he blocked and counterstruck. One of the recruits farther down was swearing as his partner had apparently jabbed him harder than he thought was cordial.

"Switch and again!"

Tradesmen had been pouring into Skyhold for the last month as the Herald - Inquisitor now - sought to get the keep into better shape. Age and abandonment had left it in a state.

The towering keep appeared to be in good condition, but several of the smaller towers had crumbled around the edges. The walls needed repair in multiple places and the southeastern wall had almost fully collapsed.

That wasn't to mention chasing out the wild animals who had taken up residence - birds, rodents and a small brown bear that was quite unhappy to see the Inquisition. One of the scouts had nearly lost an arm to the thing before they were able to put it down.

Cain hadn't been up yet. He hadn't been invited and wasn't all that interested. Commander Cullen had appointed several of the Templars and other seasoned soldiers to oversee drilling the recruits, so he was happily putting his skills and knowledge to use here.

He had never been the most talented fighter, and honestly it had been years since he used a shield himself. He had always favored the reach and power of the greatsword, but also the danger of it. The long blade required more skill and attention to wield successfully against another armed foe, and it gave little to no protection against a mage.

But it was the preferred weapon to sit in on Harrowings, and he had been asked to oversee far more of those than he wished to recall in Kirkwall.

Whenever he could draw an assignment to leave the great walled city and track apostates or escapees, or go pick up young mages to be brought to the Circle from the outlying villages in the Free Marches, he always took on those. Days traveling the countryside, an occasional good fight or the chance to soothe a child frightened to death by the prospect of leaving their family to become part of the Circle, all were better than the Gallows.

Honestly, who keeps a name like "The Gallows" for any part of their city, Cain had often thought. A twisted joke on the poor mages trapped inside.

"The Templars are skilled fighters, but the red lyrium has stripped them of their sense. They are wild, but twice as strong as a normal man and three times harder to bring down now."

Some of the blows he had parried in the attack on Haven were so fierce they sent shockwaves up his arms. He had hewed the arm off of one of the red foot soldiers and it kept coming at him. He had ripped wounds open in others that would have dropped a normal man screaming to his knees, but it barely phased the Red Templars.

And that taste. It had finally subsided about two days after the attack, but only after he had taken double his normal dose of blue lyrium. Since leaving the Order, Cain had been trying to slowly wean himself off. Stopping all at once might drive him mad like the addicts he'd see or the aged Templars who were so addled they could barely hold a conversation any more. But without the Chantry keeping a steady supply, relying on too much would run him dry and he'd find himself seeking out shady smugglers or dust dealers in the slums.

There was pain sometimes. Some nights he would be plagued by strange and frightening dreams. Other times his mind would drift, as if his thoughts were lost somewhere in the beyond. But he had cut his consumption back to every other day so far, and only at half the dose he had once taken in Kirkwall.

What was perhaps most frightening about the fight in Haven was that as he smelled the vapors and was spattered with their corrupted red blood, he felt invigorated. That hole in him that lyrium used to fill was alight with pleasure and his strength surged just by being around it. His thoughts scrambled and his rage was hard to push down. His guard had been sloppy, but his blows hit so hard he thought he might have broken the blade.

All from just being near the red lyrium. The memory of Knight Commander Meredith stumbling and shouting, red light and electricity filling the sky and then a snap - flames, screaming and nothing left but a horrific petrified form frozen for eternity on her knees.

"The Venatori are just men like you. Tevinters have their heads so far up the mages' asses they can barely remember how to use a sword. Block, parry, stab. They wear thick armor, but they are sloppy fighters. Even you sad lot could fight off an army of their foot soldiers."

The soldiers shuffled into their next drill as he continued to speak. Slash, block, stab, parry, guard, reset.

"The Inquisition will be moving into Orlais soon. You Fereldans may think the Orlesians are a bunch of powdered, mask-wearing fancies like Raoul here," Cain said, shooting another harsh glare that made the recruit snap his shield closer to his flank. "But there's a reason why they conquered and held Ferelden for a hundred years."

The Wygards, his bloodline, had learned of Orlesian might the hard way.

"The rank and file are well-trained in combat. Their archers spend years at the butts and their bows can fire near as far as a Dalish. And if you see the yellow feather of a chevalier in a helm, you better get ready to meet the Maker because he'll kill the entire company of you lot without breaking a sweat."

An Inquisition messenger had come up behind him as he watched the line of recruits spar back and forth. "Ser, message for you!" the young woman said. She wasn't armored like some of the others, but instead dressed in noble's clothing, a red velvet with golden buttons molded like lion's heads down the front. Her accent was Orlesian, but not so thick. Jader, perhaps.

Her posture was better than the usual rabble, but not so uptight and preened to be Orlesian nobility. Her family had been wealthy, perhaps, trying to jump a rung into higher society. She was young, not terribly pretty but not unpleasant to look at, her blond hair pulled back in a single braid perfectly knit, wound and pinned. She might have been married off to some aging lord down on his luck in an attempt to secure more wealth for her father.

Now she was here, running messages. The Breach had certainly caused strange bedfellows.

"Recruits, halt!" he shouted. "Three miles, in your gear. Only then can you get a meal and then report to Knight-Sergeant Tavon for more instruction. Dismissed!"

The soldiers groaned at the distance, quietly whined to each other but began jogging away. If he could continue drilling them, maybe half would survive the next battle, at this rate.

"Ser Wygard, your presence is requested in Skyhold. I'm to bring you to the main hall immediately," the Orlesian messenger said.

"I'm no ser. I gave that life up," Cain corrected her. "Who's request?"

He expected Cullen.

"Ambassador Montilyet, ser," the Orlesian cut herself short and paused for a second, finishing unsteadily with, "Uhhh, Messere Wygard."

He didn't care for Orlesians, but disliked pomp and ceremony no matter what nationality it was coming from. He knew exactly what the ambassador would want from him. "Lead on," he conceded.

The approach to the fortress was intimidating. A wide but long walkway leading to the towering gatehouse. Soldiers had moved ballistae to the towers and a hundred archers could stand atop the battlements and rain arrows down upon the walkway.

The tall walls, although worse for wear, stood atop steep cliffs falling down hundreds of feet into the valley. There was only one way into Skyhold, and it was the murderously long trek up to the gates.

The metal portcullises were old, but they still appeared sturdy and strong. He had been hearing from a few of the dwarves who would brag that only the Smith Class back in Orzammar could have forged a better gate. The smiths could do a better job in their sleep, they boasted, but still, the compliment to whoever had built the fortress before was apparent.

The interior of the gatehouse itself stretched longer than most keeps. Murder holes above, another interior gate and overlooks from either side where defenders could rain down more fire or descend to take the fight to equal ground before the enemy ever penetrated the walls.

As Cain came within the bailey, the sight of scaffolds were everywhere as masons did what they could to rebuild walls and towers. Surgeons were treating the wounded in the yard as best they could. Others were still in the process of clearing brush, draining standing water and clearing paths to get around the yard toward the stables in the south.

He ascended the criss-crossed steps and came in the main hall, which was also overrun by scaffolds. Some Orlesians were high up in the far back of the hall working on the colored glass now ablaze with the light of the still-rising morning sun.

Skyhold was still a mess, but progress was being made.

The ambassador's office was little more than a desk and piles of leatherbound books at this point. But Josephine Montilyet looked as put together as ever as she scribbled upon parchment, her quill swooping across the page like an elegant dancer leaving black traces in the snow.

"Ambassador, Messere Wygard, as requested," the Orlesian said, gave a short bow and scurried off on her next assignment.

Josephine made one last pass across the bottom of her page, giving one lavish swipe he could only assume was her signature and then she stamped down quickly with a wax seal, giving one slow blow across the hot wax to help it cool.

With a smooth grace, she rose from her seat and crossed to Cain, her shoulders high and proud and a welcoming smile across her lips. Her eyes betrayed that she had slept little since arriving in Skyhold, but her posture was as sure as a chevalier at tournament.

She was highborn and high-raised, unlike the messenger. The Ambassador immediately commanded respect in the angle she presented her body, the pitch of her head and gait of her steps.

"Ser Wygard, thank you for coming," she said. "I apologize for the disheveled state of the main hall, but as you know, it's been a trying few weeks."

"Cain is fine, Ambassador," he said.

Josephine gave a slight nod. "Of course, Cain. Commander Cullen has told me some of what transpired after Kirkwall. You left the Order, but still, he speaks highly of your abilities. From his assessment, I am glad you have decided to stay with the Inquisition."

"Appreciated," Cain said. running his hand across his mouth and his goatee. "_Buttered. Now here comes the ask," _he thought.

He had always had a talent for reading a situation, and his intuition was on target once again.

"You spent many years in Kirkwall, but it's been brought to my attention that your family is Fereldan. I've been able to research a little bit about House Wygard," Josephine began before Cain interrupted.

"With respect, Ambassador, there is no house any longer."

The interruption didn't deter Josephine, "Yes, Bann Markus Wygard was executed by the Orlesians in 8:80 Blessed. His two sons killed and his lands razed. A horrible deed that did not fit the crime. I understand the brutal executions galvanized many more of the local freeholders to Queen Moira's cause."

"You seem to know as much of my family history as I do, Ambassador," Cain said.

Josephine picked up a tablet from her desk, complete with burning candle, inkpot and quill. Her step cut in the floor and she spun on her heel, slowly back to face him. The way she turned, almost like a trained short-blade fighter. Perhaps the Ambassador could cut with a knife as well as a word?

"The Inquisition was struck a nearly fatal blow at Haven. We are rebuilding, but we need whatever resources we can call upon. I've put in inquiries to as many nearby houses in both Orlais and Ferelden as I can. Inquisitor Trevelyan has won us critical goodwill by closing the Breach, but any influence we can call upon from within will be invaluable while we await return on our calls for aid," she said.

"I'm sorry, Ambassador Montilyet, but as I said, House Wygard is no more. My mother lived as a commoner in Redcliffe almost all her life. She didn't even know she was the last surviving Wygard until after she gave birth to my oldest sister the year after King Maric took the throne. She didn't have any proof outside the word of a dying sister in the Chantry. Me, I grew up as the son of a carpenter and a lay sister of the Chantry.

"There is no influence to call upon," he said.

His grandfather had given refuge to the Rebel Queen and her army for just one night as they fled chevaliers. He stalled the Orlesians as they entered his land long enough for the Queen and her fighters to slip away into the woods around the roots of the Frostbacks. The chevaliers had been less than a half day behind and riding in force, and they took Bann Markus' meddling as a grievous affront.

He paid the price. A small noble holding, nearly a hundred years old, destroyed in totality by Orlesians at their pleasure. The Wygards could never claimed to have been strong, to have been defeated so easily.

"King Alistair is most grateful to the Inquisition for expelling the Venatori from Ferelden. Arl Teagan is likable enough with the people, but he is proving not to be the strongest leader in Redcliffe's storied history. A carefully placed request in Denerim to restore a Bann with the Inquisition's backing under the Arl's service would be favorably met by the King, I believe." Josephine played her hand well. She was Antivan, cut in Orlais, but she already seemed to have a firm grasp of Ferelden politics too. Cunning and shrewd, he could instantly see why she led the Inquisition's diplomatic endeavors. "The move could rally additional support from the foothills if one of their own was returned to rule-"

"There's nothing left to rule, as I said," his voice had gotten a little louder and stern without him even realizing as he interrupted her again. "With all due respect, Ambassador."

The door behind him creaked open and Cullen stepped in, passing off another report to a messenger who scurried away. The commander looked over both Cain and Josephine and could immediately feel the tension.

"I told you he wouldn't like the idea, Josephine," Cullen said.

"So you did, Commander," she said, spinning on her heel and scratching a single line across the parchment tacked to her handheld board. "If you should happen to change your mind, Ser Wygard, I can send word to Denerim immediately."

Cain nodded in understanding and turned, giving a stern glare at Cullen. The ambassador wouldn't have known anything about his background, that he was even part of the Inquisition, if not for a another former Templar, he was sure.

"Maybe I have a something more suited to your tastes," Cullen said, pointing forward. The commander opened the door on the back wall, stepped over a pile of bricks still scattered on the floor from the broken wall and opened the much larger doors at the end of the hall.

Inside, a large table hewn from what must have been an ancient tree sat in the center of the otherwise empty room. A giant map of Orlais and Ferelden was spread out along it. Several wooden figures were scattered across it, some knives driven into specific points. Redcliffe. Haven. Other smaller pins were sticking up from various other locations.

Critical decisions were being made over this map, Cain realized.

The war room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

The war table was impressive.

Cain had a love of maps as it was, but this one was alive. The pieces still moved. The soldiers they represented could live and die still if they were moved the wrong way.

The enemy's pieces moved too, beyond the Inquisition's vision. They were still mostly blind here in Skyhold, with only the frequent ravens flying in and out of the rookery filling in for eyes that had nearly been put out entirely at Haven.

"I suppose I have you to thank for the Madam Ambassador?" Cain said as they approached the table.

"I didn't think you were the type to want to raise a banner and ride off to your ancestral homeland," Cullen said. "But I have been known to misread people. I'm sure Josephine told you we're in need of immediate allies and support."

"In more - colorful - speech, but yes," Cain said. He didn't try to mask his disdain for politics in front of Cullen. But the commander had changed since Kirkwall. Cain could see that in the way he carried himself as he circled to the other side of the war table. He had many more lives weighing on him now, but somehow Cain expected the challenge had pushed his abilities even further.

He had been able to hold the remnants of the Templars in Kirkwall together and maintain some semblance of order in conjunction with the City Guard. That was a small miracle in itself.

Cullen's jaw was tight and his posture was stiff. He was in pain. His eyes darted to check the door before looking back down at the map.

Cullen, too, must have been weaning off the lyrium.

This morning had been better than others for Cain. His mind felt sharp and his body was sated. Still at the edges of his mind, he could feel the tug. _More. More. Please._

"Inquisitor Trevelyan has left east with Hawke for Crestwood to try to find out what is going on with the Grey Wardens," Cullen said pointing to the small tower placed in northern Ferelden with his left hand. With his right hand, he pointed to Orlais. "The situation over here is a downright mess at the moment. The civil war has torn up the east of Orlais, but discussions about peace talks are now being bandied in the Dales."

"Where are the Red Templars?" Cain asked. He could care less if the mask-wearers were trampling each others' rose gardens over who got to wear the biggest britches and the most golden rings in Val Royeaux.

Cullen smiled in approval at Cain. "A man of a single mind and purpose. I knew you'd be perfect for this assignment," he said. He looked back down on the map, leaning on both arms at the northern edge where the Free Marches and Nevarra were only partially represented. "We don't know exactly where the Red Templars are coming from. We've gotten reports they are in the Emerald Graves here and a large force set up in the Emprise here," he pointed to the two locations in the Dales.

"We don't have enough forces in Orlais to strike those positions," Cain said, himself leaning down at the map. They had just recently made it to Skyhold and their power base was all in western Ferelden at this time.

"Precisely," Cullen said. "We thought Therinfal Redoubt would be a stronghold. That's where the Lord Seeker was heading when he pulled all the forces out of Val Royeaux. But our scouts are reporting it's been empty since we liberated Redcliffe Castle. They certainly were there before. There's enough red lyrium around the place so we've set up outposts to keep people out. But the Red Templars are gone now."

The knife driven into Redcliffe protruded from the table. Trevelyan had chosen to liberate the mages instead of the Templars and the apparent cost was losing the Order to the Elder One.

The Templars he had come across in the Hinterlands weren't worth saving. They preyed on travelers like bandits and killed any mage wielding a staff just because they carried it. They had all fallen so far from what had once been, a dignified order Cain had been proud to join.

Hightown was ablaze as the Qunari ravaged their way up to the viscount's estate. As soon as the attack started, Messere Dolan, his patron and employer, had gone to assist the city guard in trying to repel the horned ones from storming up into the richer quarter.

Dolan, Cain and the city guard had tried to hold the steps coming up from the merchant district for a few minutes, but the ferocity of the Qunari quickly overwhelmed their position. They were nobles and hired protection, a few guardsmen, but none of them soldiers.

When the Qunari axe ripped through Dolan, Cain and the others had fallen back deeper Hightown. The Qunari didn't give chase. Like a flooded river, they cut a path only forward with purpose to the viscount. Anyone who stood in the way was butchered. Those who didn't impede their progress were left alone, more or less. Some of their painted fighters spread out, kicking their way into homes and dragging out hostages.

Cain and the survivors who could still fight had backed into a dead-end alley, pushing the women and children as far back out of sight as they could, while the men packed the entrance, vigilantly preparing for an attack.

The Templars were the first to break their way into Hightown. He watched as Knight Commander Meredith carved her way through the Qunari with a wing of Templars fanning out behind her. They moved with a fierce but symphonic grace as they struck down sentries and painted soldiers, almost beautiful despite the bloodshed they left in their wake.

One of the knights had come to their alley and spotted Cain and the others guarding the survivors. His full-helm masked his face, but Cain would always remember the slight nod and the words he spoke, "Good job, lads," and he escorted them to safety while forces elsewhere, the Champion included, charged the keep.

Cain was initiated into the Order within the year.

His mother had lived a life in service to the Chantry. Matilda Wygard, just an infant, was smuggled out in the middle of the night as Orlesians put the blade to all of his family's household and all of the freeholders and took the torch to every field, tree and home.

She was raised by the sisters in the Chantry at Redcliffe and spent her life serving the church, though never taking the vows. As a small child, Cain spent nearly all of his days inside the Chantry with his mother, studying with the sisters, listening to the Chanters and reciting the prayers with travelers and townsfolk.

That day he quaffed his first philter of lyrium, he had wondered why he hadn't considered joining the Order sooner. It had all seemed right, as if his entire life had been building him up to that one moment.

The rush of lyrium down his throat had made him nauseous but his body was filled with a heavenly power, he had thought. A beautiful humming music thrummed in his head as he slept that night and his dreams became more vivid than he had ever remembered before then.

"Well, what remains of the force that attacked Haven has to still mostly be here," Cain said, sliding his fingers along the spine of the Frostbacks on the Ferelden side. "The mountain passes are few and not well known. If they're not returning to Therinfal, they're either heading north toward Jader or sliding back into the Hinterlands."

Cullen stood up from the table, resting his palms on the pommel of the longsword at his left hip. "Leliana's agents report that many of the Red Templars have indeed settled back into the Hinterlands. We have a report of them working a mine east of Rebel Queen's Ravine. Locals have reported seeing Templars leading away wagons, covered, but heavily escorted. They must have found a vein of red lyrium."

A twinge ran through Cain at the mention.

"The Inquisition's army has been hurt by the attack at Haven. We can't commit a large force anywhere at the moment," Cullen said. "But even before Haven, we were finding success in dispatching small groups of agents and soldiers - groups of no more than four - to investigate areas of interest.

"We've got too much area to cover to centralize our command. Since we're sending people days from the nearest outpost, we're relying on their agency and specializations to investigate and do whatever needs to be done to further our cause. I want you to lead one of these teams and investigate this operation, if you're willing."

Cain bit his lip. The blurry memories of the battle at Haven flooded back to the forefront of his mind. The foot soldiers had still looked mostly human. But the corrupted knights, had thickened skin peppered with crystals. The horrors were taking a shape not even human. And the giant, crystalline juggernaut, was more lyrium than man.

He could taste that taste again. Bitter, like powder burned into his gums. The effects of the red lyrium were potent even just being near it. A non-Templar might fare better near the stuff, not being so susceptible to it's influence.

But he knew the Order. He had seen red lyrium at its worst. He could care less whether the Order ever reformed and he certainly had no plans to re-enlist. The abuse of the Chantry had gone so far unchecked for so long. What deity would plague his world with red lyrium?

"We can't let the red lyrium spread any more than it has," Cain answered. "Yes, I'll do it."

"If you're captured, they'll likely try to turn you too," Cullen said.

"I know."

"And you're still willing? There is a Knight of Redcliffe who knows the area that I can-"

"No, I will do this."

Cullen sighed and slumped just slightly. He lifted his right hand to his forehead, squeezing his fingers at his temples on both sides. There was no one else in the room. A soldier could safely drop his defense in front of another soldier.

"Did you feel it too? At Haven?" Cain said.

"Yes," Cullen said, just barely audible.

"Then you know why I want to do this, despite the risks."

Cullen nodded. "Do you need more lyrium? Our supply is short, but I can get you a container for the road."

"I have some. I've been easing off, as safely as I can."

"Good."

Cullen sighed once more, shook his head and straightened, putting on his commander's stance and face once more.

"Take two other men with. Send a report if you're going to need support and I'll see what we can bring in. Otherwise, I leave the mission to you," Cullen said.

The commander grasped the grip of his long sword with his left hand and pulled his right fist to his heart in salute. "Dismissed."

Cain pulled his fist to his heart too, gave a nod and turned out.

He stepped over the pile of bricks, turned his face to the right as a gust of icy wind blew in through the hole in the wall and stepped back into the ambassador's room. Cain kept his head down not to make eye contact with Josephine , but she was already in a conversation with some Orlesian noble in a mask painted in indigo and yellow.

Cain kept a leisurely pace as he descended back down toward the army camp. The air was still chill, but outside of the occasional breeze, it was a clear and crisp day. From the walkway, the fingerlings of smoke coming up for the camp rose like shades into the sky until they faded away.

He'd be happy to be out of the mountains, although the mission laid before him certainly was a cause for concern. If the Red Templars were working the mines, they would likely be there in numbers greater than Cain could handle on his own.

But the Inquisition camp at the crossroads would be garrisoned and wasn't too far away, so if he needed to wipe out the forces, he should be able to pull enough soldiers away for a quick strike.

"_Take two other men," _Cullen had said. As he descended the slopes back toward the camp he was running over who he might want to take. Certainly not another Templar. He wouldn't want to take any of the mages either. It was partly because he had had enough of magic in the last year, but they would be just as vulnerable to the lyrium as he would.

He had spent more time among recruits who barely knew how to strap in their armor than anybody worth their weight in a fight. He hadn't come to the Inquisition to make friends and he hadn't had much time to do so anyway. Not like he was seeking out crowded campfires, recently tapped ale casks or musicians after dark.

Really he had only spent time conversing with one person since Haven.

As he approached his tent, he could see some of his recruits still bent over huffing and puffing, looking like they had just gotten back. He had been gone long enough that they should have been nearly to the bottom of their stew bowls by now if they had been running at any speed. They were probably loafing it on their run. One of the recruits was vomiting off to the side from the exertion.

Dominic had pulled up next to the camp fire and was eating, chatting with some of the other recruits who were in much better shape than the lazy and the privileged.

"Dominic! Defend yourself!" Cain shouted as he pulled his greatsword over his shoulder.

The young recruit turned his head and quickly set down his bowl, grabbing his training sword and his shield as Cain closed the distance between them at a short jog.

"_Good, he had his gear close at hand."_

Dominic's face looked confused - and terrified - and the other recruits spilled out of the way. But the young man braced his weight back, holding his shield out in front and keeping his sword in his right hand at the ready.

"_Let's see how much he's learned."_

Cain twisted to the right, more slowly than he would have against a real enemy, and raised his blade. One, two, steps to close the distance and he threw the strike. Dominic's shield came up to meet it, throwing forward with a little force to check the swing outside his body.

With his right hand, the young soldier stabbed ahead as his training had told him, Cain stepping to his right to avoid it as he knew it was coming. The sword punched forward and quickly pulled back and Dominic pulled his shield close, turned his hips and realigned to the former Templar's new position.

"_Good, good. Better than I thought."_

Cain stepped right, bringing the two-handed sword up over his head and held, presenting a new attack position. He hadn't trained them on this type of pattern yet, but to his surprise, Dominic angled his shield slightly up, lifted it a bit higher and dropped the point of his sword low toward the ground. Cain would have preferred he kept it at his chest, but he was testing the kid's defenses, not his attack.

He took a feinting step forward and Dominic quickly shuffled his feet backward. Then Cain came on the attack, quick, weak overhand strikes to the right and left sides. Dominic lifted his shield up to head height and caught both and threw a quick sweep with his sword that forced Cain to drop his blade, check the slash and shove back.

He didn't let up. He pushed forward, thrusting with the long blade. Dominic knocked it to the right with his shield. "_A mistake," _Cain thought. He went with the momentum, spinning to his left and whipping the long blade around in a circle, striking Dominic in the back with the flat of the blade and knocking the the young man down to his knee.

Dominic caught himself on his shield but the practice sword skittered out of his grasp and bounced across the ground. He grimaced in pain at the strike and was swearing to himself under his breath.

Cain slid his sword back over his shoulder. "Why are you dead?"

Dominic let go of the shield, letting it fall out of his hand and straightened, grinding his teeth as he reached behind himself to try to massage his now-sore back. Some of the other recruits who had stopped whatever they were doing to watch were whispering to each other, a few smiling and snickering.

"I blocked my own blade in, Instructor. When I pushed your sword, I crossed my arms and couldn't counterattack," he said.

Cain crossed his arms over his chest and smiled.

"Good. We can fix that."

Cain looked around to all of the other recruits that were standing and gaping. "I don't recall giving you lot an order to stand around gossiping like a bunch of Orlesian ladies at the latest ball, and the lyrium hasn't totally wrecked my memory!" he shouted.

They straightened at being called out.

"Dominic parried four blows before getting himself killed, and you'll all be half as lucky if you survive half as many cuts. So I think another FOUR miles might do you all some good. Four miles, then you can finish your lunch, then report to Knight Sergeant Tavon for further instruction! Now get moving!"

Their groans of displeasure were much louder this time. One of the recruits who was already eating, not paying attention to the fight at all, threw his bowl at another and hurled some of insult that Cain couldn't really hear. The puker did the best to wipe his mouth and started lumbering away.

Dominic was getting ready to run, too, when Cain reached out and touched his chest to stop him.

"Not you. You're with me," Cain said.

"And do you happen to know someone who is a decent shot with a bow?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

Lina was an average shot, maybe good at best, but Cain had a feeling that's not the reason why Dominic had recommended her.

The young elf had carefully combed hair that had luster like obsidian, ice-blue eyes beneath always fluttering eyelashes, a leather breastplate that had been specifically molded to her slim figure and an Orlesian accent from a deft tongue that rolled all the right letters. Apparently she also had a wonderful singing voice.

Dominic was clearly smitten, and noticeably awkward around her.

She had a been a servant in a noble's house in Halamshiral until Empress Celene brutally crushed the elven rebellion in the city a year ago. Lina said she escaped her master's home in the middle of the night to head for Val Royeaux and a safer atmosphere for elves.

She was obviously lying.

But she was a capable, if not spot-on, shooter. She had assisted her lord on his many hunting excursions, she said, and would often down fowl while her lord chased a more "masculine" prey, the way she told it.

She had become quite popular around the camp in the evenings and not difficult to tell why. Dominic was constantly stealing glances at her as the trekked through the foothills, nearly falling over his own feet at some points when he wasn't paying attention to the uneven ground.

It was a wonder Sister Nightingale hadn't discovered her yet.

After descending out of the mountains, they had stuck to the Imperial Highway toward Redcliffe. There had been no sign of Red Templars since leaving Skyhold, but there were several merchants on the highway who stopped to talk. Many were already heading to Skyhold, but Cain had put in good words with many others who were looking for stable trade in light of the numerous fade rifts littering the countryside.

When they had come to three large stones sitting off the west side of the highway, Cain stopped and turned their group west toward the foothills again.

"I'm pretty sure Redcliffe is south," Dominic said.

"It is," Cain answered. "We're not going far. Less than a day off the road and then we'll be back on track. There's something I wanted to check out."

The west road was dirt with some stone scattered to keep the mud down, not nearly as wide of smooth as the highway. Shortly after leaving the highway, the landscape began to get closed in by trees as woods lined the sides of the path.

In the distance you could see the occasional farmstead nearby or a path cut into the wood that wound deeper in to what he assumed would be some freeholder's home and land.

It was midday when he turned them up a barely visible path to the north, overgrown with grass and trees that had begun to encroach on what was once a road. The trees lined the path very close on both sides, but after mile walking through the woods, the foliage opened into a glade.

The lake was small, easily small enough to swim across for a healthy swimmer, and the water was surprisingly clear. Small streams ran like veins across green fields open to the sun.

On the northern side of the lake, on a small hill raised just a few feet from the normal pitch of the land, the remains of a single grey stone tower jutted up from the land. The stones still bore scorch marks, the eastern side of the tower had crumbled and was lain bare. Around it, many burned stumps and fallen trees were still visible and in various states of decay.

But saplings, tall grasses and wildflowers were filling in some of the barren places.

"What is this place?" Lina asked.

Cain stopped and looked at the broken tower in the woods. He felt a sadness in the place and he questioned why he had even wasted a day walking out here. This wasn't his home. He had never lived a day in his life here. He had only seen it once before, nearly ten years ago.

But yet he remembered the path as if he walked it a thousand times. The brush that was now overgrowing the broken bones of the old keep hadn't been there when he last saw the glade dusted in winter snow. This land was a graveyard, but there was life to it again.

"It was called Calen's Roost once. But it hasn't been that in more than 50 years," he said and continued forward along the edge of the lake.

The air was fragrant in the clearing. There were birds singing in the trees and the rustle of leaves as the wind blew filled the glade with a soothing music.

"I wanted to get a look at the tower. I figure we can rest here for the afternoon, have a good night's rest and continue out tomorrow," Cain said. There were no complaints.

As he walked along the waterside, Cain looked at the surrounding land. He tried to picture what it might have looked like with a few small boats out on the lake with men throwing nets or fishing with poles. The cleared fields around them would be tilled in rows, other areas fenced off and livestock grazing. Small dwellings would dot around the lake, with small children darting in and out.

But even as he tried to picture all that, his mind continually wandered to a wall of flames, Orlesians marching in their shiny armor as the entire glade burned. He could see bodies hurled into the lake, floating face down, people screaming as they tried to run for safety only to be chased down and run through by cold Orlesian steel.

As they approached the tower, Cain thought he heard voices and stopped the others. They stood in silence for a moment, listening, before Lina whispered, "I hear someone too. Two men, talking."

Cain nodded, pressing his finger to his lips. What was left of the walking paths to the keep were around the lake, so he took them north and planned to come up along the backside of the tower. If bandits or whoever else were squatting here, they wouldn't be paying attention to that direction.

The grass had grown up nearly waist high and the Inquisition agents crouched low to conceal themselves as the moved slowly through the brush. As they got closer to the tower, the voices of the two men was clearer.

"-nice place once."

"A little tower, a few freeholders, yeah, I can see it. Kind of what I had always wanted."

"A busty wife, a vault filled with gold and some peasants to order around. Sounds like a good life to me."

A pause.

"Awfully quiet up there."

"Aye. You still up their pretty birdie?"

There was a quiet whoosh, the sound of clinking metal and then the crackling of flames. Cain could smell smoke.

"Yeah, she's still up there. Ready to give up yet, sweetie?"

"Go away you Templar bastards!"

That last one was a woman's voice, for sure.

They came around the north side of the tower and Cain peeked around the edge of the broken wall. It was much as he suspected.

Two Templars, sitting at the base of the tower. The grass around them had been scorched by fire. He couldn't see up into the tower, but he had an idea of who he would find up there.

He made eye contact with Lina and with his hands, made a subtle motion of pulling one hand back like he was drawing a bow. The young elf nodded in understanding. He put up his hand for the other two to stay.

Cain stepped around the corner. "Got a mage cornered here?" he said to the two Templars.

"Where'd you come from?" one of the Templars said as they jumped up from their seats. They were both in their armor, both had tower shields. One carried a sword. The other a hand axe. Neither was wearing a helm, both of the full-helms were sitting on the ground next to a fallen log where they had been lounging.

Cain stepped out away from the wall and craned his neck to look up into the tower. More than half of the outer wall of the tower had fallen away, but many of the spiraling steps were still in tact. The upper floor of the tower had mostly fallen away, but enough was still sturdy. Perched at the edge was a woman, dressed in a dark blue robe and carrying a staff.

"I came up the road just now. I was looking for a place to stay overnight and saw the tower in the distance. Though it might be safe here. I heard you and thought you might be bandits."

"Please, help me!" the mage at the top of the tower yelled down. "They've been chasing me for days and I've been trapped up here since morning! They're going to kill me!"

Cain couldn't see her well, the sun was high in the sky and the light was too bright as he angled his head up.

"Don't listen to her. Blood mage. Just doing our Maker-given duty here," the Templar with the axe said.

"That sword. Look at that sword he's carrying," the sword Templar said, pointing with the blade.

"Oh yeah, I see it," axe Templar responded. "You there, you a Templar?"

Cain glanced up at the tower again and then back at the two Templars. Neither appeared to have any corruption on their flesh. The Red Templars who attacked Haven had been wearing red lyrium crystals around their necks, but he didn't see that either.

"Yes, I take the lyrium," Cain said. A half-truth to mask the lie.

The Templars lowered their weapons. "Well then, brother, good to see another of the faithful," axe Templar said. "You don't have a shield, I take it you've got some honed anti-magic then, brother? Can you help us get up the tower? I really don't want to wait here all day for this blood mage to fall asleep or get desperate and really start throwing some nasty stuff down at us."

"Yeah, or let a demon take her," sword Templar said. "Really don't want that kind of scrap."

"Don't even try it!" the mage shouted. Her staff glowed and she hurled another fireball down at the Templars, which axe Templar easily blocked and neutralized with his shield.

The fireball was weak and wobbly, Cain noticed. Either this mage wasn't very accomplished, or she wasn't accustomed to fire. She looked young, but old enough to have gone through a Harrowing. Her robes identified her as a Circle mage, not some apostate. In order to survive the Harrowing she must have had a better grip of magic than that. She was holding something back.

"What's your plan?" Cain asked.

"Depends on how much of a fight she puts up. Maybe just kill her. Maybe take her alive and have a little fun before doing our duty," axe Templar said with a grin that told his intentions.

Cain looked up at the tower again.

"Are you a blood mage, girl?" Cain asked.

"No!' was her quick response.

Cain turned back to the Templars and shrugged his shoulders. "She says she's not a blood mage."

"Of course she's going to say that," sword Templar said. "They never admit to it."

"I'm not! Please ser, you have to believe me! I was just trying to get to the Inquisition when these two began hunting me," the mage said.

Cain nodded. He looked back to the Templars. "You know, I hear the rebel mages joined the Inquisition. The loyal mages too, under the lead of the Imperial Enchanter of Orlais."

"I don't see no Inquisition out here," sword Templar said.

"Piss on them anyway. They're blasphemers. I still do my duty. Maleficarum get the sword, that's my duty," axe Templar added. "Now are you with us, brother?"

Cain looked up at the tower once more. The mage had pulled herself away from the edge and out of site. Probably preparing herself to sling whatever spell she needed in anticipation that they'd rush the tower.

"Aye. I've got a bow here around the corner. Let me get it and see if maybe I can pick her off from down here, save us the trouble."

He turned around and stepped back around the corner of the tower where Dominic and Lina were lying in wait.

"Two Templars. Lina, hit the one with the axe. His armor is too thick and he's got a shield, so you'll need to be quick and take him in the head. He's not wearing a helmet," Cain said.

"Dominic, you follow with me. Let me take care of the other one. You circle around his flank and try to distract him. Hard foot fakes. Don't, _don't_, try to fight him. We go once Lina takes her shot."

They nodded. Lina pulled an arrow from her quiver and fit it to the string. She took a deep breath and spun around the side of the tower. A second later her bowstring twanged and Cain followed around the edge of the stone wall.

Her aim, this time, had been true and Cain just caught sight of the axe Templar crumpling to the ground with the shaft of the arrow sticking protruding from his skull.

"Maker's shit!" sword Templar shouted and lifted his shield. He turned at an angle and fell back a step, trying to position himself equidistant between Cain and the mage at the top of the tower. She was now standing on the edge, crackling lighting sitting at the edge of her staff and in her left palm.

Cain charged around the corner, pulling his sword. He raised his right hand to the woman in the tower, hoping she would get the meaning to not start raining spells down on top of him.

Dominic was behind him and split out wide to the left to circle around the back of the Templar. He could tell he was outnumbered and in trouble and charged ahead at Cain, bull-rushing ahead with his shield like a wall.

Cain slid left, forcing the Templar to turn. The shield was too large to get through, but Cain didn't need to strike. As the Templar turned, he clearly forgot about the mage behind him. She pointed her staff, firing a bolt of lighting off the tip. The bends of purple electricity struck the Templar in the back just as he was about to close the distance to Cain.

The Templar crumpled and fell forward on top of his shield. Cain raised his sword above his head and drove it down, biting through the plate armor and slicing through flesh. The sword stopped when it hit bone. The legs of the Templar twitched and fell still.

Cain pulled the sword out and drove the point into the dirt, letting it stand, and raised his hands again.

The mage on the tower still had electricity in her palm and was glaring down.

"You can stand down. We won't harm you. We're Inquisition," Cain shouted up to her.

"You said you're a Templar," she said.

"Was a Templar," Cain corrected. "Not like them. I serve with the Inquisition now."

The mage hesitated. She looked at Dominic and Lina who had come up to Cain's side and sheathed their weapons as well. The lighting sputtered out and the mage hooked her staff on the back of her robe.

"I'll trust you," she said. "I'm coming down."


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

The mage dozed softly in the shade as the sun began to slip behind the treetops and fade to dusk.

Her name was Anya.

She hadn't slept in more than a day. The Templars had caught sight of her on the highway and given pursuit. She had run down the west road, pushing deeper into the woods when she stumbled across the broken tower. A defensible position, she thought they would either try to push up the winding stairs where she could pick them apart, or they would lose interest and leave.

She hadn't expected a long siege.

Cain had built a campfire and Lina had managed to bring down a hare she had stalked in the brush. If the elf had been lying about everything else in her life, she was at least telling the truth about the hunting trips.

Dominic had been sitting at the edge of the lake for most of the day with a crude pole he had fashioned from a branch and some grass he had knit into a makeshift rope. He said he could see fish still swimming just beneath the surface of the water, but none of them were biting at whatever bait he had thrown out there.

He was now skinning and prepping the hare. He had lived his entire life in a small village on the Storm Coast, so he was handy with that kind of work. Dominic continued to shoot longing glances at Lina, who wasn't paying him any attention. His attempts at making smalltalk with her were even more awkward than his swordwork, which was improving, but still very rough. There were no elves in his village, he had confided in Cain.

While the other two had been hunting and fishing and Anya was getting her much-needed rest, Cain had walked the grounds. He climbed to the top of the tower where the mage had been and looked out across clearing in the wood. It wasn't many acres, but enough that he could have imagined maybe on hundred or so people once lived and worked the land here. A few dozen small families, working the land and the streams and living a comfortable, peaceful life. It was an isolated garden in the Ferelden foothills that had once served his family well.

Wyvern's garden.

_Wygard._

As he stood at the top of the tower, he had tried to remember all of the details of the story his mother told him. She too, had strained to remember the details, having lived here only a few weeks as an infant, far too young to have any memory of her own of the place. She had never seen this land. She never left Redcliffe - not to visit here, not to ride to Denerim to ask for it to be returned to her.

It had been destroyed, thoroughly, she had been told. She had nothing, no proof of her birth, no money, no family heirlooms to prove this land should be hers by right. She served her entire life at the Chantry and prized its lessons of humility and peace. The flicker of grandeur she might have had once was snuffed out soon after she gave birth to her first, beautiful daughter.

Then Eliza was a mage. The twins, too, both mages. Magic had penetrated her womb and taken root. For years, they had feared Cain too might have the curse. But it never came, not like his sisters.

His mother passed the name Wygard to him. She had given up on the thought of reclaiming land and title. But if her son wanted that life, she wouldn't rob him of his bloodline. Cain's father hadn't objected. He was common. He had no name to give.

He looked out into the lake, at the pile of white stones protruding just out of the center of the water. The smooth, round stones weren't natural there.

Cain tried to remember. It was the Storm Age, the same year as the end of the Third Exalted March, right? His history was rusty and his dates fuzzy. 7:84? Yes, that had to be right, the Orlesians burned it in 8:80, not quite a hundred years.

With the Orlesians off fighting the holy war, the wyverns grew in number in the Frostbacks. The nobles would hunt them for sport, having the beneficial side effect of keeping their numbers down. But with the Empire strained fighting the Qunari, there were fewer young, enthusiastic nobles to host their lavish parties and daring hunts.

One of the wyvern matriarchs had come east over the mountains and settled into the lowlands. The woods and the water had been a suitable place to brood and the dragon-kind mother had taken the garden as territory.

The Arl of Redcliffe wanted the beast killed before it gained a foothold and became a nuisance. His two sons and a wing of knights sought out to destroy it, denying the pomp of an Orlesian hunt but still treating the outing with great ceremony and fanfare.

They returned without any trumpets or banners. Three knights had been mauled and killed. Both sons were gravely injured from the acid spit of the wyvern and several others had suffered wounds. The wyvern had fiercely defended her clutch of eggs, piled neatly in a stack at the northern edge of the lake.

His oldest son recovered, but his younger lost his sword arm to the acid. The Arl declared that anyone who killed the wyvern could claim their prize - the land, his daughter's hand or a chest of a gold.

How had his mother described Calen? He couldn't recall. What would she have said? Handsome, likely. Everyone's ancestors were handsome or beautiful in the stories. But Calen was an experienced hunter, that part he remembered.

While the arl's sons had tried to fight it head on, Calen had set traps. Snares, spike traps, nets, poisons.

The final blow he had struck into the open maw of the beast, the point of the spear thrusting out of the back of the beast's head. Calen carried the beast's head back to Redcliffe.

The arl was true to his word.

Bann Calen Wygard was made that day. His standard, an indigo wyvern's head pierced vertically with a golden spear.

A faded banner, burned and tattered by weather, still flew at the top of the tower. It fluttered just over the broken parts of the wall. Unreachable unless he carefully tiptoed atop the uneven and cracked stone of a top of the tower wall.

Cain ran his fingers along the rough stones of the tower. Uneven, each roughly hewn and patched together with mortar. This wasn't a powerful keep, with carefully molded bricks stacked one on top of the other. This place fit together piece by piece over many years, with ingenuity filling the gaps.

He walked the ground, finding plots of scorched land that had never recovered. A few wooden beams here and there were still rotting away as the wild vegetation overtook them. Piles of stones that had once been walls now law scattered around the garden, with black burns still visible on some sides.

It was as he had told the ambassador, a ruin.

But he could still feel a tugging on his heart as he stood there. This had never been his home, but it felt like his land. Towers and homes could be rebuilt, land could be cleared and tilled once again.

But rifts needed to be closed, demons defeated and the world put back together. This land was untouched, except for the signs of the occasional traveler who had set up camp or hunters that had cut perches in the brush to stalk prey.

It would remain.

The fat and grease from the hare began to spit over the fire as Dominic turned the meat slightly to cook another side. It was a good hare, not too meaty, but enough to give them each a good meal. Dominic had stuffed the insides with herbs and the fragrance of cooking meat reminded Cain of some of the better peddlers in Lowtown. You'd have to watch out for those trying to pawn off rats as better fare, but the few who would have good fowl, rabbits or deer were worth the extra coin.

Anya stirred in her sleep near the fire and then suddenly snapped awake, grabbing her staff as if by instinct. She quickly scanned the camp, the fire, the three Inquisition men and seemed to remember where she was and why. She lowered the staff back to the ground and sat up, running her hand through her chocolate hair and yawning.

She pulled her hair back on the left side of her face, gave it a quick twist between her fingers and pinned it, letting the right said fall loosely over her ear and down to her shoulder. Her eyes were a dull green, dim in the light of dusk.

Her robe was a navy blue, with a little bit of trim on white fur around the neck and the cuffs of the sleeves. The white was dirty, she appeared to have been on the road in the wild for some time.

"Welcome back," Cain said.

That was odd, he thought to himself. It was something he would say to mages after their Harrowing, but something he hadn't said to anyone in more than a year. Mages dreamed different than other people, but he wondered why he had chosen the phrase.

Anya sat up, casting measuring glances at the three again. "_She doesn't trust us, still," _Cain thought, She had no reason to, he knew. Ever since the Circles collapsed, being a mage had become even more complicated than before, he knew. They had few friends before. They had less now.

"That smells nice," she said, tilting her head toward the roasting rabbit.

"Could be better if I knew the land and could find some better herbs," Dominic said with a smile. "Or some mushrooms. Oh, if there were some mushrooms nearby, that would really make it."

Lina was watching the mage as suspiciously as Anya was watching them. She was cleaning her bow, wiping the wood with a cloth slowly and watching. She wasn't actually doing anything, but the motion disguised the fact that she had her fingers wrapped around the grip, ready to fire at a moment's notice.

"Why aren't you with the other mages? Why would you be so far away from Redcliffe and the others?" Lina asked, her eyes narrow and her Orlesian voice sharpened to a point.

"Lina, stop," Cain snapped, shooting her a harsh glare.

Anya lifted a hand to indicate it was fine. "I understand. Us mages aren't welcome anywhere," she said with a frown. "I'm just trying to get away. I don't want any of this. The rebellion, the Circles, the Chantry. I don't want any of that. I was with the mages at Redcliffe. But when the Tevinters showed up, I ran. Whatever the Grand Enchanter was planning, I didn't like it.

"I was just trying to get away from it all. Then I heard that the Inquisition had come and freed the mages. If I had just stayed…" she said. "I was trying to make my way toward this Skyhold place I'd heard of, when those Templars chased me here."

She sounded sincere, Cain thought. Mages typically weren't the best liars, he had found in his experience. Some were better than others, but there were few secrets in the Circles. Many apprentices knew that lying to the Templars often ended poorly for them, so many didn't develop the skill. Enchanters dabbled a bit more, but Anya appeared too young to have obtained any significant rank in the Circle.

"How did you know the tower was here?" Dominic asked.

"I didn't. Luck," Anya said shrugging her shoulders. "There was a path. It had to go somewhere. The woods were thicker, so I hoped to be able to lose the Templars here. Instead I trapped myself."

She looked at Cain. "Thank you again, for helping me. Those Templars, they were your own kind."

Cain shook his head. "I was never them." He wanted to believe that, but he wasn't sure it was true. "What Circle are you from?"

"Ferelden," Anya said as she changed her position, crossing her legs and placing her staff in front of her on the ground.

"So were you there during the Blight?" Dominic asked excitedly. After saying it, he wrenched his mouth, obviously realizing how insensitive that sounded. "I mean, I know a lot of mages died and, ummm, yeah, sorry."

"I was. I was just 10 years old at the time," Anya said. "The demons flooded through the tower. The older mages protected me and tried to fight their way up the Harrowing chamber. They told me to run and hide. I hid under my bed in the apprentice quarters and just waited and waited. There were horrible noises echoing down through the tower. Abominations were prowling through the hallways. I was too scared to try to run for the exit. The Templars had sealed it anyway.

"Then Enchanter Wynne and the Hero of Ferelden came and saved the tower," she said. "I never got a chance to the thank the Warden before she left the tower. A Dalish and not even a mage and she helped save us. I'll never forget her."

Cain knew the story of what happened inside the Circle Tower well enough. After hearing about what happened, he had written Knight Commander Greagoir directly to ask about his sisters. He had known in his heart they were all dead. The Knight Commander's response only confirmed it.

He had read a full report on what happened after he joined the Order, as complete as the Templars and the few surviving mages could put together after the event.

His oldest sister, Eliza, possessed and turned into an abomination. The twins, Jenna and Jessa, both killed by demons.

Perhaps most disturbing, the reports indicated that Eliza had sided with Uldred. The details were fuzzy, but the investigation suggested that Eliza had been helping pull demons across the Veil. Either she brought across something too strong or too devious to control, or worse, she willingly let it take control of her.

It's why he had wanted to become a Templar. To stop those types of mages. To prevent something so horrific from ever happening again.

And then came Kirkwall. Now he wasn't sure whether mages had been the problem to start with. Was it the Order, the Chantry that were at fault? "_Magic is meant to serve man, and never to rule over him." _So vague, so twisted. It was the basis for everything the Order stood for and no one could even definitively say what that all-important tenant meant.

He remembered what they told him it meant. He didn't believe that anymore.

"Did you know my sisters?" Cain finally said after weighing it in his mind. "They were twins. Jenna and Jessa Wygard. Dark hair like mine, always smiling. Couldn't separate the two of them if you tried. They were probably ten years older than you."

He didn't ask about Eliza. He didn't want to know. She had always despised him anyway. His life, his freedom. She hated the Circle Tower and hated her life. He never doubted that she would fight on the side trying to break away. If only she had waited, she would be free now, with the other mages.

Anya's face was blank and she paused. She squinted as if she was trying to remember and looked at Cain to study his features. "No, I'm sorry. I was just an apprentice. If they were older, they had probably moved upstairs with the other Harrowed mages."

Cain nodded. "A shame. They were so full of life."

A quiet fell over their camp, outside of the cracking of the hare, the wind in the trees, the rustling of Dominic readjusting the spit and the wipe-wipe sound of Lina and her shortbow. Anya picked at the fur trim on her robe, pulling some small blades of grass out of the fur at her wrists.

Lina began to whistle a tune quietly, a slow, sweet lullaby that Cain recognized. He would often hum it himself when they traveled with small child mages on their way to the Circle. As the elf slid into the next verse, Cain joined too, his whistling not nearly as smooth or sweet as Lina's, but she smiled with her eyes and continue along as she wiped her longbow.

For a moment as they whistled together, the song dispelled the memory of Circle Tower and brought peace back to the camp. When the song ended, Lina smiled.

"Is that almost done, sweetie," the elf said to Dominic, batting her long eyelashes. She was making a play for the best piece. Cold and unfair. Cain could certainly pull rank and take it, but she was certainly working for it.

"Uhhh, well, let me see. Maybe just a little longer," Dominic sputtered. He lifted the spit, caught a glimspe of Lina gazing at him and almost dropped the meat on the ground as hot grease dripped down onto his hands. He put it back over the fire and shook his hand out, sticking the burned flesh between his lips.

Lina offered him her waterskin with a smile. "Here you go, darling." He uncapped it and poured a little bit onto the seared marks on his fingers.

Cain chuckled and Anya rolled her eyes.

The mage turned her attention to Cain once again. "So Inquisition, huh? Where are _you_ heading and why aren't you with the others?" she said with emphasis to jab at Lina's earlier prying.

The thought of red lyrium might spoil his appetite, Cain thought.

"How about a bite of food first, then all of that second?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

The Fereldan Frostback was snoozing lazily on pillar of rock in the center of the valley.

Its dragonlings were down in the small pools and on the hills, hunting the rams and fennecs that inexplicably were still trying to graze in the shadow of the great dragon.

They weren't the smartest animals, perhaps. But Cain and the others were planning to try to cross the same valley, so he wasn't sure if he was just as dumb.

The Inquisition officers camped in the Rebel Queen's Ravine said the dragon had been still lately, occasionally taking flight to hunt. The Herald had stirred it when he came down into the valley earlier, the great dragon filling the narrow gap of the ravine with fire that had caused him and his companions to dive back to the safety of the camp. The soldiers suggested that maybe something with the mark stirred the dragon's attention. Some of the scouts had carefully prowled down past the entrance and the dragon had never taken notice.

They had updated sketches of where the Red Templars had been spotted. There were some Templars at the mouth of a cave on the far east side of the valley, an old, out-of-use mine that was cut into the cliff face. The Red Templars came out to patrol around a few times a day, but none of the carts or wagons were coming out this way. The Inquisition held the narrow pass, so they must have been moving the lyrium out another way.

Cain had asked about circling around to try to find the exit, but the officers said it would take them miles out of the way. The cliffs were solid and there were no good passes unless they were planning to circle around toward the ruins of Lothering and then approach it from the east.

So sneaking past the dragon was the best option, if not the worst decision Cain had ever made in his life.

He told the Inquisition officers to send word back to Skyhold that they had arrived and were investigating. The officers prepared a notice and said they would get it to Nightingale's ravens at the crossroads.

Once Cain had explained their mission to Anya, she had agreed to continue with them. She was planning to join the Inquisition anyway and after the ordeal at Calen's Roost, she feared traveling alone.

As Cain had expected, fire wasn't her forte. Anya specialized in lightning magic as she had shown in the actual battle. She claimed to also have some proficiency in force magic, which would be helpful if they needed to try to collapse the mine to keep the Red Templars away from their corrupted lyrium.

The group of four stood under the rocky overhang at the mouth of the ravine, all staring at the dragon snoozing quietly on her pillar of stone. "We'll stick close to the south wall and try to avoid the dragonlings. Last thing we need is one of their cries waking their mother," Cain said. "If we move quickly, we shouldn't have any problem getting past her."

"Otherwise we're dragon food," Lina said, stringing her bow, just in case.

"I'll do what I can to keep the dragonlings distracted," Anya said with a confident nod.

Dominic was quietly muttering the Chant to himself, preparing for a sudden and gruesome end.

Cain watched as the dragonlings prowled around. There was a particularly daring ram skipping through the puddles and getting closer to their hunting ground. He watched as the babies eyed the ram, slinking through the tall grass toward it.

"Anya, can you give that ram a nudge to the north?" he said.

She squinted her eyes. It was a long distance, but Anya's staff jumped to life with a white light swirling up toward the knotted head. She closed one eye, stuck out her tongue and bit it, aiming the head of the staff. A second later she let the small pulse of energy go. A stone jutting out of the ground near the grazing ram burst into pebbles as the bolt hit and the ram scurried away, frightened.

The dragonlings were in their hunt and quickly pursued, squawking as they chased it.

"Now our's chance!" Cain said and sprinted down the hill into the valley. The others were in step behind him. They ran, their eyes split between watching where they were going and watching the stone tower where the dragon lay its head.

But the ram had done its work in drawing away any of the other lizardkind and they splashed quickly across the span, turning around the edge of the cliff and out of sight. They huffed from the exertion, but were happy to be out of danger, for the moment.

The mine was now in sight, far across the valley but he could see the wooden supports and ruts made by carts and wagons that used to come in this direction. Outside, two sentries were posted. He could see the glowing red crystals hanging from their necks, even from this distance.

The problem was they saw him too. "Shit," he muttered. "We need to go now. Dominic and Lina flank right. Anya you're with me. Hurry, before they call more men."

His feet dug into the dirt and he burst ahead before the other three could react. He hunched low and pulled his sword over his shoulder with his right arm, letting the blade float behind him low to the ground as he ran. He hoped neither of the sentries was an archer.

He drew close and it was as if the Red Templars could sense another of their kind. Neither carried a bow. Two foot soldiers. Two swords, two shields.

As before, the red lyrium had enraged them. While backing into the mine to warn the others would be most prudent, both charged ahead to meet Cain.

A ball of lightning whizzed over his head, purple electricity crackling as the energy tailed behind like a comet. The Red Templars each split to a side, letting the blast puncture the ground between them.

"_Even better than hitting one,_" he thought as he cut left. The distance closed and he dragged his blade up, slamming a hard strike against the Templar's shield, driving a deep gash in the wood and steel.

He pulled back immediately and braced for the counter blow. He lifted his sword to catch the overhead strike. The force drove his arms back and he planted his boot into the Templar's shield to kick him backward.

Cain immediately followed. He pulled his arms across to his left side and swung in a backhanded blow. The Red Templar had stumbled on the uneven ground from the kick and was flailing. The sword ripped into his shoulder and down. As the flesh gave way to steel, hot blood and the aroma of the red lyrium filled the air.

Cain's throat was aflame as soon as he took his next breath, pulling the sword back and striking the Templar again in the head, splitting his helm and spilling red blood between the rent metal.

Cain pulled back and coughed, spinning to check the other Templar. Two arrows protruded from his shield and he was on the attack, battering blows down on Dominic's wooden shield.

Lina was circling the field, trying to get a vantage point to take another shot. A flash of light broke the sky and a thin bolt erupted up from the ground, cutting through the Red Templar. It's body froze mid-slash, the arm hanging frozen and paralyzed in the air.

Dominic never hesitated. He dropped his shield and crossed over his body, driving his sword down with his weight and severing the sword arm in a single blow. He ducked and cut back to the right, driving the blade deep into the Templar's greaves. Another arrow struck it in the back as it teetered and fell.

The young soldier drove the sword down quickly through the breastplate - stabbing at the heart twice for good measure. Cain came up and severed the head with a single stroke, just to make sure.

Two down. None dead and wounded. A good start.

Cain covered his mouth and stepped away from the body. It was toxic and he didn't want to spend any more time than he had to looking at its corrupted form.

He waved the others to follow and approached the entrance to the mine. As he stepped inside the cliff, blocking out the outside sun, he could see the red pulsing light coming from within.

There were noises. Picks swinging. Men talking. Stone crumbling. Metal wheels creaking.

The sounds seemed close. If this mine was expansive, it didn't sound like it from their position. It likely stretched deeper, but the light and the noise was close.

He had originally intended to scout first and call in the Inquisition to help him clear the tunnels. But with the dragon guarding the valley, trying to pull too many people across the open span was likely to get them all killed.

"We're going to have to do this on our own," he whispered to the others. "Kill anyone wearing Templar armor and anyone who has those crystals growing on their skin, regardless."

He considered there might be miners pressed into service within. But depending on how long they had been exposed to the lyrium, they might be too far gone to save.

"How many will there be?" Dominic asked.

Cain shook his head. "Impossible to tell until we get in there. Expect to be outnumbered."

Anya thrust her staff into the middle of their impromptu circle. "Let me lead. If they're clumped together, I can probably stun them all at once."

Cain didn't like the idea of letting a mage start blasting spells with a stone roof hovering over their heads. But if they moved ahead and ran into a dozen Red Templars, letting her unleash her powers might be the only thing that saved them.

He looked at Lina, who shook her head in disapproval. Dominic looked skeptical too, twisting his lips as if trying to make a decision. But then he dipped his head in a nod.

"We'll be right behind you," Cain said.

The Templar didn't trust her, Anya realized. Old habits died hard, even if he said he had given up on the Order. He'd never trust magic.

Or maybe he was concerned about her casting spells in the cramped cavern. Maybe that was it? She scanned his face, but it was blank and focused. He was kind of handsome. No, not the time for that. Later.

Her mind was racing and she was trembling. Nervous. The enchanters in the Circles stressed control. Safe spells. Trusted patterns. Known exploration. Very rarely did they let a mage let loose. Too dangerous.

Lightning was unpredictable. Her mentors had tried to keep her away from it. Better left to Dalish elves and experienced enchanters. But she hadn't listened. It felt natural. Her tutors had warned that was dangerous. Demons were always watching from the other side.

She was caught in her head. The others were waiting, she realized. Why had she volunteered to lead? What if there were five Templars, or ten, or a hundred? Up until a few days ago, she had never even turned a spell on an enemy. Now the other three were relying on her? What was she doing?

Anya tip-toed down the corridor, keeping her body as close to the wall as she could. She moved slowly, watching every step to make sure she wouldn't trip over a stone or crack a branch or step on a nug or something. Nugs liked the underground, right?

She froze as the narrow passageway opened to a large cavern. There was heat and light. Red pulsing light. Red lyrium. There were people, a lot of people, working the mine.

Several were dressed in filthy clothes and were wrapped in chains. They swung picks at stone or carefully chiseled away the large crystals protruding from the walls.

There were only a few Templars. Two on the catwalk. Three on the ground. One was much larger, not carrying any weapons. The skin on his faced looked dry as parchment and was twisted around his mouth and eyes. His helm had split up the right side where crystals were growing out of his neck and up the side of his head.

"_Now's my chance!" _she thought, opening herself to the Fade as she began to tug at some of the arcane power from the metaphysical. She felt out the wild energy. She pushed it through her arm and into the staff. It vibrated and trembled in her fingers.

There was too much stone. Stone didn't conduct. She'd have to throw it.

She twirled the staff at her side and tucked it under her armpit to brace it. Anya stuck out her tongue, pointed the tip of the staff and let it fly.

The bolt of lightning flew in a white beam. The Templars weren't expecting it. The bolt struck the larger one, the knight, and the lightning spilled out like a net around the other two near him. She jerked the staff back, tightening a web of energy around them.

"You better go now!" she shouted to the others.

The sudden magic had snapped the Templars on the catwalk to life. Archers. Aiming at her.

Cain and Dominic rushed around her side. An arrow shaft whizzed over her head, thankfully. But it missed wide left and Lina swore behind her.

One of the Templars loosed. Anya released the leash of magic she had been holding on the Templars - the fighters would have to deal with it - and pulled up a wall of force as a shield. Two arrows - she hadn't even seen the second - struck and fell dead.

She dropped the wall and fired three quick snaps of lightning up toward the catwalk to disperse the archers. The elf came up along her flank with her bow drawn, whispering something quietly to herself as she waited for the Templars to come back into site.

As one peeked around, the Orlesian let fly and planted the shot into his breastplate. She quickly nocked another. "Help the others," the elf said coldly.

"Don't miss again," Anya responded with equal bitterness.

One of the Templars had backed the teenager into a corner, throwing strike after strike. The young man was keeping up his defense. He was overmatched.

The elf was going to miss again, she knew. Close-combat wasn't advisable for a mage, but she ran ahead. An arrow whizzed over her head and the second Templar on the catwalk groaned and fell. "_Nice shot. Should have been nicer to her," _Anya thought.

The Templar who was battering down Dominic eyed her and turned as she stabbed forward with the butt of her staff. As the tip made contact with his shield, she pulsed electric through it, watching the bends vine up his arm. She swung, gathering a force at the head of the staff and connected with him, swatting him up into the air.

The Red Templar bounced on the ground, falling on his stomach. The teen pounced, driving the sword into its spine.

Behind her, she could hear Cain coughing.

The other foot soldier was dead. An arrow protruded from his thigh and his head was displaced from his body.

Cain had been knocked away and was down on one knee. His left arm covered his stomach. He was pushing up off his sword to get back to his feet.

The Templar knight had deep scratches across its chest, strikes Cain had landed. The armor was rent, but underneath it, red-stone skin had barely been nicked. The Templar held his hands apart, as if grasping a large ball. In between them, light and crackling energy formed between them.

It looked like magic but it felt … chaotic. She could feel the swells in the ether when a spell was powered by lyrium. But this was an unnatural energy. Foreign. Wild. Dangerous.

Cain stumbled his way to his feet as the ball of red energy grew between the Templar's palms. An arrow struck its left shoulder, not even causing it to flinch as the shaft bounced away as if had hit the stone wall.

What were the shielding forms? A forcefield or wall of ice or a clump of parasitic, entropic energy. Anything.

Her mind raced as she tried to remember the patterns but couldn't grasp it. She had hated the enchanter the Circle brought in from Monstimmard who specialized in defensive magic. He had a stupid-looking mustache. And he always smelled like Orlesian cheese. She suddenly wished she had been more tolerant.

She reached into the Fade to pull magic forward, but she didn't know what she was grasping for. Her mind was scrambling and unfocused and the mana sputtered and died.

The Red Templar pushed his hands forward, firing the ball of red energy forward at Cain. "_Dead!" _she bemoaned inside her head, cursing her inability to concentrate.

Cain was hurt, and had just pulled himself to his feet, but he had managed to pull his sword across his body to parry. Anya could feel the air shift. Unlike the red lyrium, that was a feeling she recognized, as if the very air was being sucked out her lungs.

Anti-magic.

The greatsword sparked with white fire as the ball of the energy struck it. Cain's feet slid backward as the blast pushed him with its force, but his arms locked and the blade held. Flames of red light spilled around him and dissolved in vapor as he pushed against the corrupted energy.

Cain grunted and his knee buckled slightly. But his foot found purchase in the stone and locked. His dark hair was flying back as if he was being hit by strong gust of wind. She could see the muscles in his jaw and neck tighten in rigid cords.

His arms were shaking, but with a roar, he forced the blade up and away from his body, splitting the red energy. His momentum carried forward and he closed the gap between the knight. His blade, still afire with anti-magic, struck down into the Templar's shoulder. The light of the red crystals faded as the sword approached and the blade cut as if normal flesh.

The Red Templar staggered. Anya felt another pulse of anti-magic flood off Cain and she placed her staff on the ground to keep from stumbling herself. Cain struck quick blows, flaring his Templar power with each strike as he overpowered the corrupted knight. He swung the greatsword with ferocity and cleaved the knight's head.

It teetered, clearly already dead. But Cain slashed low, severing a leg. As it fell, he hit it again in the flank and slammed it into the ground.

The anti-magic stopped in a sudden burst. She reached out and touched the Fade, just to make sure it was still there. It was. The disruption was like losing a sense, enough to bring a mage to panic.

Cain's chest was heaving, she could see. His body shifted and he dropped his left arm to his abdomen again. He was hurt. She ran to him.

"Cain! Cain, are you OK?" Anya said.

Before she could reach him, he lifted his left hand to her to stop her. He stumbled a step to the right. Another fit of coughing wracked his body and he turned his head away from the dead Red Templar. He hacked and spit and regained his balance.

"I'm fine," Cain said. "I just need a moment."

With the battle over, she now noticed the miners again. Some had stopped and were staring blankly at the Inquisition. Others continued working as if nothing had happened. One woman was now sitting on the ground and sobbing quietly.

"What about the miners, Sergeant?" Dominic said as he looked at one man who continued to swing his pick at the wall. He was shirtless and his flesh was already showing red veins pushing up under his skin. Dominic waved his hand in front of the man's face, but he didn't react.

There was a pause. Cain looked around at the miners, about ten of them. One had been killed in the attack, by someone. Anya wasn't sure who was responsible. She hadn't seen.

Cain stepped closer to one of the miners who had stopped and looked closely at the man's face. He was older, maybe in his forties. His body was gaunt and his face expressionless. Cain grabbed the man's chin. He didn't protest. The Templar inspected the man, then stepped back and cut him down without a word.

"Cut the crying girl loose." Cain said.

"Kill the rest."


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven**

Lina and Dominic reluctantly did their duty.

The mage didn't take part. Cain didn't care.

He was giving these poor souls a merciful end.

Their eyes were dead. The red lyrium had penetrated them too deeply. Their minds were either being torn apart or burned away. They were less than slaves, nothing but husks.

He told the others to go outside and get some fresh air. He would look a bit deeper into the mine and join them in a moment.

A lie.

He needed them to go away.

They did as ordered.

Cain retreated farther down the tunnel, out of their sight. Anya had noticed he was hurt, but he had tried to keep it from the others. The Red Templar knight had slashed him while he was dispatching the foot soldier. The hulking knight didn't carry a blade, but the lyrium crystals growing from his meaty fists had slashed as true as any dagger.

Cain's mouth felt like was filled with ash, bitter and burning, just like it had after Haven. His pride had forced him to take this assignment, but it was foolish and dangerous. After another scrape with the Red Templars, he was realizing just how vulnerable was to their corrupted lyrium. Too vulnerable.

He lifted his fingers and examined the blood that was coming from the gash in his abdomen. Cain looked over his shoulder to make sure the others hadn't followed him. He was alone.

He lifted his mail shirt and the tunic underneath and took a closer look at the wound.

"_Shit," _was the only appropriate word he could summon in his mind as he looked at the bloody hole. It wasn't large and it wasn't bleeding badly. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't even be bothered by it.

But his eyes honed in on the fragment of red lyrium that jutted from his flesh.

It must have broken away from the Red Templar's fist and caught in the wound. It was barely a sliver, not even half as long as his pinky finger. But it was red lyrium.

He reached down, his fingers shaking as he pinched the small shard between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. It felt like any other stone, smooth and hard, if not slightly warm. He could feel fresh, hot blood sliding around his fingertips as he tugged, slowly pulling the piece out to make sure it didn't break under his skin.

The knight was monstrous, his distorted features, red crystals growing _out _of him. The battle in Haven was confusion and surprise and he hadn't had time to really take notice of his foes. But this battle was different. He was close and his eyes took time to examine the grotesque knight as he attacked it.

How long had it taken to corrupt the knight to such a state? Red lyrium hadn't been anywhere except Kirkwall less than a year ago. The Templar Order had been fractured by Lord Seeker Lambert, but not so far fragmented that this type of wicked transformation would have been so widespread.

It could only have been weeks, maybe a few months at the most, for someone like him to become something like that.

The shard of crystal slipped free from his wound and he quickly threw it down the tunnel with a quick flick of his wrist.

He coughed again, his chest heaving and he bent in two. His stomach wracked and he choked, his stomach lurching. His eyes watered and a pulse of bitter ichor washed through his mouth again.

Cain needed to bandage the wound, but he fumbled in the small pouch on his belt. He pulled the small vial out and uncorked the stopper, placing the cool glass to his lips. He tipped it slightly, letting the lyrium drip onto his tongue. He sipped more deeply than he would usually and swished the thick fluid around his teeth and into his cheeks before gulping it down.

The bitter taste faded and he could feel a calm come over him as the blue lyrium pervaded his body.

Cain closed his eyes, drew a few breath and clenched his fist in and out, trying to relax his muscles. There was that same aching and tension in his body that he had felt after Haven. His mind calmed and his body eased and he suddenly realized he felt exhausted.

It had been some time since he had used his abilities at that level.

"Cain?" came the soft feminine voice from behind him. "Cain, you're hurt."

"I told you, I'm fine." He took a step forward away from her. The mage.

She continued walking toward him, he could hear. "You're not," Anya said, matter-of-factly. Her fingers lightly touched his shoulder and her jerked out of her grasp and took another step forward. She followed and grabbed him this time, pulling him around. "Stop this. Let me help you."

Cain turned as she pulled and used his right arm to shove her away. He pushed harder than he intended and Anya stumbled back, having to catch herself against the wall of the mineshaft. He was awash with anger. His right hand curled into a fist instinctively and his eyes narrowed.

"Leave me," he growled.

His reaction had startled Anya, and she cautiously took a step backward, pulling her staff off her back as her eyes locked around his clenched fist. She slowly brought it around to her front, eyes carefully watching Cain's hand. "You _are _a Templar," Anya said, the words laced with equal parts bitterness and disappointment.

His fingers tightened in his fist and he felt another swell of anger run through him. What did she know? She was just some girl. She should have died with all of the other mages in the Circle Tower. She probably was a blood mage, as the other Templars had said. He should have helped them instead of cutting them down. They knew his suffering. She didn't. Maleficarum.

His anti-magic flared. Anya's eyes widened with fear. He pushed harder, letting the field expand off his body. She raised her staff. She pointed it. Nothing happened. He closed the distance in a single step.

His fingers wrapped around her throat. He pushed her into the wall. His mind was screaming. _Kill her! She's maleficarum! She is weakness! You am strenghth!_

Anya's fingers frantically grabbed at his hand.

He squeezed harder.

She opened her mouth. If she screamed, he couldn't hear it.

He clenched tighter. Her fingers raked at his his arm, useless. She kicked her legs, but couldn't reach. His power flared higher. Her eyes watered. They looked desperate. Hope slipped away. Fear overtook them. The bitter taste flooded his mouth.

That bitter taste.

_Kill her!_

Anya stopped fighting. Her eyes stared empty. Defeated. She was ready to die.

His mouth burned. His temples pounded. He couldn't feel his right arm. That bitter taste was so thick he could feel it stopping up his throat and his breath. He the air in, trying not to choke and looked at the greenish light in her eyes as she faded under his might.

A tear dripped from her eye and rolled down her cheek.

_Stop! _

The word jolted through him, as if an outside voice had screamed directly into his ear. But it was his voice, slicing through the rage and the chaos in his mind. His thought cleared. As if for the first moment, Cain noticed his fingers clasped tightly around the mage's throat.

He let go, pulling his hand away as if her neck had suddenly become white-hot metal pulled from the forge. He stumbled back, looking at his own fingers. He felt bile coming up his throat. He realized he was still holding his breath. He exhaled. The breath felt like fire, as if he had been holding in ash and acrid smoke.

He coughed. The acid in his throat forced its way upward and burned. His chest wracked and his jaw filled with spit and bile and he turned to the side, spewing it onto the ground. The coughs didn't abate and grew fiercer. His ribs felt like they were collapsing inward. He bent at the waist, then fell to his knees, pressing his hands against the cold stone.

The wound at his stomach burned. He sucked for air but couldn't seem to pull any it. Drool fell from his open maw, spraying in foamy slather as the coughs pounded out of his chest. His slather dripped red.

He gasped and the first breath of air slipped into his lungs like a cool rush of relief. His hands clenched and he breathed again, drawing another breath. He coughed, lighter, and took a third breath.

Cain could feel the calm retaking him. He forced his lips into an O and slowly pulled air between them. In and out. In and out.

He had nearly killed the mage.

A shiver ran through him at the thought. He had killed mages before, several, but always in battle. Apostates on the run, abominations formed as the apprentice failed his Harrowing, the rebels who tried to fight their way out of the Gallows at Kirkwall. But not like this. Not in cold blood. Not in rage, not just because they were mages, because they had insulted him. In and out.

He turned his head to the left. Anya was on her knees, her head down and hair covering her face. He could see tears dripping down into her hands folded in her lap. In and out.

"Anya," he forced through his lips. She didn't answer.

"Anya, please." Cain rolled to his side, a dagger of pain shooting through his wound. His fingers fell to the gash. It was bleeding again, he could feel as his fingertips brushed, hot, sticky ichor. The wound was burning, as if someone had stuck a molten poker inside it and dug it down. It pulsed waves of pains. She lifted her head slightly, a single eye peeking out between strands of her hair.

"Please," he said again. "Please. Help me."

It was a plea. "I can't …" he struggled. "The lyrium." It sounded like an excuse. Was it? For what he had done? "I can't withstand the lyrium. It was … in me."

"I can't, I don't …" He couldn't find the words. His mind was scrambled, filled with fear. "Please. Don't let me become that," he begged. "Become them."

The fingers on his left hand settled into the wound again. It was so slick with blood now he couldn't tell how large it was just by touch. His mind felt fuzzy. The bitter taste had subsided, now left with nothingness.

Anya stirred. She lifted her head and crawled forward on the floor toward him. She reached forward with her right hand, her fingers trembling. After what had happened, he couldn't blame her for being frightened.

Cain lifted his hand away from the wound as she drew closer. Her fingers stopped an inch from the slash, as his hand was still floating there, just above hers. He looked up and Anya was staring him in the face.

She didn't blink. She studied his face and his eyes, her lips pursed and quivering. Her eyebrows bent inward, wrestling with a decision.

Cain couldn't blame her if she didn't help him. She was on the precipice of death at his hand. She could spark magic into that hand and drive it through him right now. Perhaps she was considering it. He could accept that.

Cain pulled his hand back slowly, retreating.

Anya's eyebrows pulled out and lifted. Her lips opened just slightly and her entire body seemed to melt in relief. She blinked.

Her fingertips touched his stomach.

Cain winced as she slowly and carefully traced them across his flesh, feeling the wound underneath the blood. She slid closer to him on the ground and sat up, reaching her other hand to his abdomen to hold the sheared metal and ripped fabric aside. She bent her head lower to look and a white light flickered into being on her left hand.

Cain could feel her breath on his flesh as she examined the cut. He groaned as she dipped deeper into the slit and pressed down. Fresh blood oozed around her delicate fingers and she pushed a second time, eliciting another grunt.

"Try to hold still," she whispered to him. "I'll try to be quick."

Before he could protest, she punched her fingers deeper into the wound. A cry of pain escaped his lips and he jerked, but tried to steady himself. Her fingers fumbled inside his flesh and he ground his teeth together as waves of pain shot up through him.

Her tongue poked between her lips as he had seen her do while she was concentrating on a spell. She moved her left hand slightly, pushing again with her right and then quickly withdrew. Cain gasped at the sudden exit.

Between her fingertips, Anya held another jagged piece of red stone. She held it up, looked at it and sighed. Her eyes looked at Cain again, softer than before.

They almost looked like forgiveness, he thought. No, she would never forgive. Understanding, maybe, nothing more.

Cain averted his eyes to the side, ashamed.

"I can seal the wound now," she said. "If you trust me to knit it magically."

He had planned to rinse it and patch it himself. He turned over her use of the word "magically" for a second. She wouldn't have said it that way if she didn't doubt whether he could tolerate it. "Yes," he said simply. "Thank you."

Anya reached down again with her right hand, pressing her fingertips at the top of the cut.A green light wrapped around her fingers and she touched it to the open flesh, sliding it down the length of the wound as the magic quickly sealed the rent flesh back together as if new. In a few second, the skin was closed, leaving only the stains of blood on his stomach. She placed her palm flat against his skin and sent another pulse of magic that he could feel flow from her hand through him.

The green glow faded and Anya slowly pulled her hand back. "That's it.."

Cain reached his hand down, touching himself and finding the wound completely sealed. His flesh was smooth, completely normal.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I know," Anya responded.

"I understand if you would rather leave. I can send you back to Skyhold with the others," he offered.

"And what about you?"

He paused. "I'd leave. Far from here. Far from anywhere. Somewhere where I can't hurt anyone."

Anya instinctively reached up and rubbed her hand around her throat. She was no doubt in pain. He had crushed her neck under his fist. He was sure there would be bruises.

"What is it like? The lyrium?"

"It's a noose," he answered without hesitation. That thought had been on his mind ever since he left Kirkwall, ever since the first day he tried to go without it and could feel his entire body lusting for it until there was nothing else to his existence but the yearning. "Every day it grows a little tighter. You stretch as far you can, you struggle and balance on your toes just waiting for that day you slip and fall."

Anya stretched her hand out again, touching the place on his stomach where she had just healed the wound. The touch of his fingers on his flesh gave him a sense of calm, a peace and feeling he couldn't remember feeling in years. Could he even remember that any more?

"And this red lyrium. It's all madness. It takes all of the worst in you and amplifies it a thousand times," he reached down and took Anya's hand in his. He squeezed. She didn't pull back.

"I can't," he stumbled again. "It penetrates me. I can't fight it. The lyrium is already inside me and the red lyrium, it's there too. I can't defeat it. But I have to do whatever I can before it claims me too."

It was then that Anya pulled her hand back. "How can you believe that?"

"How could I not? You see what I am. What I will be. You said it. Templar. _Templar," _Cain said with such disdain the second time. "We are already sentenced to die. The Chantry fed us this fate. And now a twist, an even crueler price to pay. We deserve this for what are, for what we did. To you. And to your kind."

The confession caused Anya's eyes to well with tears again. She sniffled. She leaned forward and took Cain in her arms, hugging him. It wasn't the reaction he was expecting. Confused, Cain wrapped his arms around Anya too, and held her.

She placed her head on his shoulder and cried for a moment. She whimpered softly, squeezing arms tighter around him as her chest lifted and fell with each quiet sob.

After a minute she said, "It's not your fault."

_It's not your fault? _He didn't understand.

"I won't let you destroy yourself."


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight**

The Templar and the mage had been gone a long time.

Dominic looked at her when she thought she wasn't paying attention, but always glanced away when she turned. He didn't say anything to her, muttering to himself as he examined the fresh chips in the wood of his shield.

Lina was bored.

The fight had been exhilarating and terrifying both at same time. Her hands had been shaking so fiercely with either excitement or fear that her first shot sprayed so badly wide. She had almost gotten the mage killed. It wasn't her intent, but it might not have been so bad.

Every mage she had ever encountered was a stuck-up bitch, anyway. This one didn't seem much different, except she wasn't wearing gold, jewels, silk and a fucking mask like all the Orlesians.

She had stomped her lord's mask to pieces while he still wore it on his face.

He lay on the ground, choking on his own blood from where she dragged her dagger across his flabby, jiggling throat. He had sent his wife away to Montismmard when he heard the Empress was coming to Halamshiral with an army. He had taken the opportunity to lure the young, common girls from the market with a few gold coins each and then fucked them raw in his marital bed, against their will, night after night.

The fat ass kept his mask on even in bed. He needed to constantly remind those girls, even as he massacred their innocence with his noble rod, that he was better than them. When he was finished with them, he would have Jevan carry the girls downstairs and dump them out the back door into the alley in the middle of the night like trash.

After the eighth night of listening to the girls pleading, begging and screaming for mercy - one of them had actually sounded more like she was screaming with pleasure, whore - Lina decided to put a stop to it. The Empress had burned half the fucking city to the ground and city gutters ran red with elven blood. Bodies were left on the curb where they fell. Their families and friends were too scared to even collect the dead elves for fear that a chevalier would kill them too.

She was an elf and as good as dead to the humans anyway. Even if she wore slightly nicer clothes, touched up her face with cosmetics and wore a lord's crest at her heart, she wasn't so sure that would stop the next human from snatching her off the street to be beaten, raped and killed.

So why not dole out retribution where it was needed?

Lina kicked open the door of his bedchamber while his flab was rolling like waves as he spoiled another girl underneath him. He started yelling something about "Get out" or "Stupid knife-ear" or something along those lines when she walked up without pausing and cut his throat. He fell out of bed and was writhing on the floor dying. The girl in the bed was screaming and crying - more than she had been already - when Lina lifted her boot and smashed it down on the lord's face. The porcelain mask shattered. Maybe his skull did too. He stopped moving shortly after that.

Oh, that gurgle… Lina would never forget the sound of her lord's blood bubbling out of his throat as he tried to scream or plead or whatever it was. His hands frantically scraped at his throat as if he might be able to plug up the delicate slash she gave him.

She had killed that fucker Jevan too. Lina cut off the tips of his ears so that he looked like a fucking human when someone found him. He didn't deserve to die as an elf.

She held Jevan down on the ground as she carved his ears, before she dug her dagger into his belly and watched as she spilled his guts all over the kitchen floor while he was still alive. He had been cooking a pie for the lord, ignoring the sounds from upstairs, when she barged in. The lord said he might have enjoyed a bite after his next "date."

She wiped her bloody hands on Jevan's pristine white shirt. Then she took the pie for herself.

It was peach and overly sweet.

She hated peach.

She threw it against the side of the house in the alley.

At least this mage didn't wear a mask. Neither did the Templar. They were Fereldan, so they had a certain hatred for Orlesian masks, like Orlesians did for dogs. They had cats. She realized she had forgotten to stab her lord's cat on the way out too. Empress Cutie de Fluffingdale needed a dagger too. Damned cat ate better than Lina did most nights.

"Dominic, sweetie, should we maybe check on them?" she said fluttering her lashes again. His face flushed. He was adorably pathetic.

"Sergeant Wygard said he'd come get us," Dominic said.

"_Ugh, so boring," _Lina thought. The Templar had clearly wanted to be alone, but the mage had to go poking her nose in. It was a good way to get herself killed. Mages and Templars didn't play nice, she knew. Everyone knew.

"But what if they're in trouble?" she said innocently. "Maybe more Red Templars came?"

Dominic chewed his lip. Not an attractive habit, Lina thought. "No, if there were more, he would have tried to hold them off and sent Anya back to get us or told her to run."

So, so boring, Lina thought again. Instead she twisted her head and rubbed her left shoulder, groaning slightly. "I think I pulled something trying to dodge one of those arrows. My neck and shoulders are so tight now," Lina said, bending her back as she kneaded her shoulder with one hand. She made the effort look harder than it actually was and then dropped her hands in feigned frustration.

His eyes were not discrete, and he was looking at the curve of her body, as intended. "It's sooo sore," she whined. "Could you … no, nevermind."

"What? How can I help? Anything Lina," Dominic quickly jumped to assist.

"I hate to ask," Lina lied. She never hated to ask for anything. She never hated men fulfilling those requests either. "But could you just massage it for me. I can't reach well and it's very tight."

Dominic might have passed out. His face was both red with embarrassment and white with fear at the same time. Really quite amusing, she thought. He stood up, bending awkwardly at the waist. He wasn't hiding his excitement well either, she noticed. Dominic stepped behind her and placed his hands lightly on her shoulders.

"On the left side there Dominic," she said in her sweetest tone again.

He began to squeeze between his fingers. He hadn't done this many times before, if ever, she quickly realized. His fingers were pinchy and tough. Not smooth and fluid like that one Orlesian man in the camp. The one who could play the lute. He had deft fingers. What was his name? She hoped he wasn't dead or gone by the time she got back to Skyhold. Maybe she would request they perform together a little bit, him with is practiced fingers and her with her fluid tongue.

"Mmm, that's good," she lied. Maybe he would get better. She smirked to herself - Dominic couldn't see - and decided to take it up another level. "I think my armor is in the way."

Lina reached behind her head, undoing the buckle where the belt at her neck strapped together. She worked the leather straps and buckles between her fingers, slowly pulling the leather strap out to loosen the neck and shoulder pieces. The armor had been customly made for her, black leather that laced up in a corset in the front and buckled in the back. It left her upper back and shoulder blades exposed, but it allowed her to move her arms more fluidly while using her bow. Nobody should be hitting her from behind anyway.

She got the leather loose and pulled it away, exposing the skin of her neck and shoulders where her undertunic didn't cover. "Don't peek," she said playfully as she folded the leather breastpiece down. She was covered, but she knew by telling him not to look, he would definitely try to steal a glance over her shoulder.

Once she had the leather lowered, Dominic quickly put his rough hands back in place and started again. Still a little pinchy, but he was getting a more fluid kneading down. "A little softer, sweetie. I'm very tender."

He complied. Such a good listener. Maybe there was hope for him, with a little training. He appeared to be an attentive student.

Dominic followed the Templar around like a small puppy and absorbed every lesson the soldier gave while they practiced swordwork in the evening. Dominic did have a certain rustic attractiveness to him, his strawberry blonde hair a little shaggy over his forehead and curled slightly at the edges. The blue-green in his eyes was a little pretty. He said he lived on the Waking Sea and that his mother - ugh - told him he had sea eyes, he said.

He would sweat as the Templar ran him up and down drills, soaking through his thin shirt as they trained. He was too scrawny, though. Maybe another year at if, if he could add some bulk and muscle he would have a burly Fereldan charm for a girl who was into that kind of look. Now, he was too much like an elf and too much of a boy to be of real interest.

But teasing him and the other boys around the camp had been a nice distraction from the cold and the thought that for some reason she had joined some sort of army and a Maker-damned war. She was still trying to figure out how that all happened.

Maybe it had something to do with some semblance of equality from her life of trying to scrape by as an elf in Orlais. Or maybe the excitement of murdering her fat lord was a thrill she wanted to recreate. More likely it was that little bitch that had fingered her to the chevaliers and caused her to have to quickly flee Halamshiral.

She had saved that girl from - well, not saved, but at least interrupted - the disgusting humping and the girl turned around and reported the grisly murder to the guards. Ingrate.

Outrunning armored chevaliers on foot through the winding streets of Halamshiral hadn't been tough. Trying to keep ahead of their horses once she got out of the city had been a little more of a challenge. She had stolen a wiry horse at the city gates and it didn't have the same kind of speed as an Orlesian charger.

She had lost them in some woods, abandoned the horse and hidden. The woods. She laughed internally at the irony now of being an elf hiding in the woods. She hadn't thought of that before. What was she, Dalish now? Once she made it to Jader and slipped across the Fereldan border, the game was over.

The Inquisition offered some safety, the chance for meals and, supposedly they said, the opportunity for some equality. The upstarts were taking in anyone who might be able to prove their worth, regardless of their station. Many of the minor nobles who had flocked to the cause were still generally getting all the good assignments, but a few regular folks did get some good gigs out of it.

Getting a chance to travel outside of the fortress and actually do something was a nice change of pace. She had gladly accepted Dominic's offer, although she didn't particularly like the idea of Red Templars. But the Hinterlands were farther away from Orlais and any Orlesians who might wander over from Halamshiral, so she agreed.

Dominic was getting the hang of this massage, at least. She closed her eyes and hummed a little to herself as he continued, a low, slow sultry tune. His hands responded, slowing to the melody as she had hoped.

Suddenly, he stopped.

"There's someone coming," he said quietly.

Lina opened her eyes and looked. He was right. There was a man approaching in the distant. He looked like he was robed and carrying a staff. A decorative staff. The sun glinted off bright metals, gold or silver maybe, as he hiked his way across the valley. This wasn't some wandering apostate or separatist from the Circles.

"Get out of sight," Lina said, quickly reaching behind her and buckling her armor back up in one swift movement. The time for games was over as she scooped up her bow and ducked behind the rocky outcroppings around the mine entrance.

As the mage drew closer, Lina could see the glint she had noticed was correct. He was wearing a hooded robe. He wore a belt of gold, chains of other precious metals. His staff was jeweled, two golden serpents intertwined, each devouring the other's tail around a white focusing crystal.

"Where are my sentries?!" the mage shouted to no one in particular.

He was taking a different path than they had, so he couldn't see the bodies of the two Red Templars they had felled in the tall grass.

He was getting closer, almost to the entrance of the mine.

"Of course I get to oversee the one mine in the shadow of the Inquisition and a damn dragon, with the reject pile of Red Templars too stupid to even …"

His grumbling was cut short as an arrow punched his chest. He looked dumbfounded at the shaft protruding from his gut. He lifted his hands, probably to touch to see if the arrow was even real, when a second hit, this time closer to the heart.

The mage crumpled to his knees and fell face-forward without another word.

Lina lowered her bow and exhaled.

Dominic was next to her, staring in exasperation. "What did you do that for?"

"Didn't you hear him? He was coming to check up on the mine. He's with them," she said as slipped the third arrow she had pulled back into her quiver. "And he's a mage. A _wealthy _mage. Trust me, you don't want to tangle with his sort if you don't have to."

Dominic huffed, trying to come up with another argument. In his head he was thinking about how they could have rushed out and captured him alive and sent him back to the Inquisition for questioning, or to turn him against his master. He was probably imagining rushing out there with his shield and deflecting spells left and right like the Templar might be able to do and then nobly disarming the mage, she knew.

"I guess you're right," he conceded.

She gave Dominic a smile to wipe his troubles away and get him thinking about her again. His face softened - didn't flush this time at least. "Let's search him."

Loosing those arrows had given her a nice amount of satisfaction. This one hadn't looked Orlesian from the distance, which was good. Orlesians were bad, but Tevinters were worse. Every now and then they'd come prancing into the alienage offering good coin to any elves who would accompany them back to whatever hellhole city they spawned in. Many stupid elves often did, not realizing they were selling themselves into slavery, or worse.

The Orlesians just looked the other way too. Maybe a mage in Tevinter robes strolling through the poor elven quarter of Halamshiral should be a cause for concern. Apparently not. The guards probably had golden Tevinter coins clinking in their pockets too.

Some of the children they just took. Playing out in the street? Trying to forget that your belly was rumbling because your parents couldn't afford fucking _food? _They'd just grab them.

Lina wondered what kind of spell they had abducted and killed her brother for. It better have been something fucking grand, she thought as she pulled back her leg and gave the dead mage a powerful kick to the side of the head, just to make sure he was dead. His jaw twisted under her boot, but flopped limp just like any other dead man. The grass was drinking up the warm red blood dripping from the mage.

This one was Tevinter. That robe was made of the black samite and it had buckles and buttons in gold shaped like dragon heads. Every Tevinter mage wished a dragon would gobble his staff.

She unbuckled the golden belt and quickly pulled it, putting her boot on his ribcage to lift him slightly off of it. The mage's belt had plenty of pouches on it that were likely filled with good stuff she didn't want to taint with his blood. After getting the belt out from under him, she kicked him to roll him over.

His eyes were stuck wide open and blood was seeping out of his mouth where Lina had kicked his jaw askew. He was ugly even before Lina readjusted his face for him. She admired the placement of her arrows. The first got him just between his ribs and his stomach, right in that soft spot. The second was a damn-near bullseye to the heart. There was blood everywhere. She definitely hit something messy with that second arrow.

She quickly fished inside the robe, checking for interior pockets. There was nothing on the left breast except a bunch of sticky blood, but she was delighted to find a small leather-bound book and some folded papers in the right breast pocket that hadn't been spoiled with blood yet. She quickly pulled them off and let the body flop back into the dirt.

As he fell, she noticed an odd mark on the man's right arm where the sleeve had slightly slipped up. She nudged the sleeve up a little more with her foot, revealing a set of carefully measured scars up his forearm. He must have been either poor, weak or not from influence. Self-cutter.

Blood mage. But weren't they all? She shrugged.

"What happened out here?" The Templar and the mage were emerging from the mouth of the cave. He was looking at the dead body at her feet.

She gave him a nudge with her boot again. "He came to investigate. Didn't make it very far, I saw to that," she pointed to his arm. "Blood mage."

That made the Templar look confused and the mage's face seemed to go blank as she looked at the dead mage. "What's a blood mage doing here? And why would he be checking in on the Red Templars?"

Lina was already scanning the papers she had taken out of his pockets. Love letter from some Tevinter cow back home. Poorly written love poem he had started back to her. Crudely drawn map. And then an official-looking letter.

"It looks like he was an overseer," Lina said as she scanned the letter. She began reading aloud:

_Martellius,_

_The Inquisition is too close to your position. Get the last shipment of lyrium out of the mine and then move on. The Red Sun has need of you here. The Templars serving this 'Elder One' are here, moving a much larger shipment of the lyrium on the Waking Sea. It'll be ours before long. They're watching out for Inquisition, not us._

_The master has ordered tests in the tunnels here. We have a few people moved into place and are in need of additional breakers. If you want your chance to prove yourself, this is it. We'll be expecting you within the week._

_The sun rises in the east and falls red in the west,_

_C.A._

"Then there's a map here too," Lina said, holding it up and passing it to the Templar.

The Templar looked over and turned the paper a few times. He didn't recognize it, obviously.

"The Waking Sea," he said, testing the words on his tongue. "The coast stretches hundreds of miles. This map is local. A few towns, a few landmarks. A shipwreck, a dwarven statue, Greenhills, Saltshore, Bricker's Break?"

That perked up Dominic's ears. "What was that last one, Sergeant?"

The Templar looked up at the younger man. "Bricker's Break?"

Dominic began scratching the back of his head nervously and smiled. "Yeah, I know that one. Small village. Hardly known."

The Templar turned the map around so that Dominic could see it. He pointed to the small dot near the top left corner of the sheet where, in tiny script, someone had scrawled out the name. "Do you know this place?"

Dominic nodded. "Definitely."

He turned his head toward Lina, smiling more confidently than he ever had when he looked at her before.

"Sounds like I'm going home," he said.


	9. Chapter 9

**Nine**

The rain fell in sheets.

Dominic lifted his head and let the wind and water wash over his face. It felt amazing.

He was home.

The others were miserable. Especially Lina. He felt bad for her. Her beautiful black hair was soaked through her face had been stuck in a frown since the rain started two days ago. Her charm and enthisuam had washed away with the rain. She was bordering on unpleasant to be around.

She was still lovely though. He helped her wring out her clothes every night as they made camp. He never peeked as she undressed. He wanted to. But he didn't. "_A knight must cherish chivalry above all else," _Ser Damon had taught him.

The land rose and fell the closer they got to the coast, sharp cliffs and rolling valleys. Rivers emptied into the sea. Waterfalls fell from the hills. Springs bubbled through the stone to create clear, cool pools.

And it was storming. It didn't always rain on the Storm Coast, but it rained enough to stay true to its name. Dominic loved the rain. His village loved the rain. The fish were more active in the rain.

He could smell the sea salt as they crested the hill. The narrow path carved in the hill was slippery as rain over their feet as they ascended. The others had slipped and fallen, multiple times, but Dominic was as sure-footed here as the rams that grazed the water-soaked grass.

"_A knight must be prepared on any terrain, but no land is better than his homeland," _Ser Damon said.

The location on the map appeared to be about a day away from his village. It wasn't specific, but he had a good idea of where it was. There was a narrow cave that opened into a cove on the sea. Smugglers had used it as a loading point for goods being run to and from the Free Marches during the Fifth Blight. The villagers kept away from it and the smugglers kept away from them.

The restless sea had carved all kinds of caves and nooks into the Storm Coast, which had made the area popular for apostates, criminals, smugglers - anyone who needed to disappear for a while. But it was also populated by wild mabari, giant spiders, deepstalkers and darkspawn. Wanders who thought they'd stay a night or two in a cave would soon find themselves being eaten alive by something in the middle of the night.

Sometimes the villagers could hear them screaming in the middle of the night if they were close enough to town. Not a pleasant memory from his childhood.

The others were just catching up again as Dominic looked over the top of the hill. The slope descended down to the coast and in the distance, the lamplights of the dozen buildings that made up the place he had lived all of his years prior to leaving to join the Inquisition.

Bricker's Break.

Bricker had been a pirate. The cliffs and jagged rocks that shot out of the sea near the shore zig-zagged and had skewered a dozen boats over the years. The legends said Bricker could slice through the gauntlet, even on a moonless night. When he had finally given up that life, he founded the village, so the stories said.

"It's even smaller than I had imagined, although I don't know how that's possible," Anya said as she looked down into the valley.

"Anything to get out of the rain," Lina added.

Three skiffs were out off the coast, rising and falling as the waves rolled in to crash on the shores. Dominic could see them throwing nets and pulling them back full of fish. A good storm and a good catch. His father was out there on one of them, he knew. He'd be out all night.

To the west, up on top of one of the larger hills in a thicket of trees, Dominic could see the faint greenish glow of a fade rift. He hoped the demons hadn't wandered down to the village since he had been gone. But all the buildings looked safe. At least as far as he could see in the pouring rain.

"Just a little farther now," Dominic said, throwing a smile at the sour Lina. "I'm sure they'll have some dry clothes, fire and food for us."

"_A knight must always be grateful of the hospitality of his host," _Ser Damon had said.

Cain brought up the rear, well behind the two women. Maybe it was the rain and the hard pace they'd decided to take, but he was looking ill. He stopped them to rest frequently, he had declined to practice their swordwork in the evenings and he wasn't sleeping. He looked ragged and stumbled forward.

Anya was often at his side, speaking softly to him as they walked. During the stops, she would work some small spells on him. Maybe he was fighting some type of fever. He had been sweating and often his eyes looked as if they were staring somewhere far, far away.

The red lyrium had affected him poorly after the battles and as they walked through the mine near Redcliffe, passing through the narrow tunnels and coming out on the east side. But that had been five days ago and they hadn't passed a single crystal of red lyrium since.

Dominic began to amble down the hill, letting his feet slide in the wet grass as he slid down, his arms out at his side like wings to balance. He and some of the other boys would do it whenever heavy rain made the hills slick and they'd slide down on their bellies when the slopes were covered in snow in the winter.

He zipped past weeds and rocks, turning his feet slightly to keep his slide going. The others were well behind on the hill. The rain whipped across his body as he gained speed, digging his heel into the dirt to slow as he approached a rough patch where the grass had died and faded away. He hopped over the muddy patch and kept at a run toward the village.

It had only been a few short months since he left, but Dominic was excited to be back. He had seen the Herald of Andraste with his own eyes, watched the pulse of light shoot up into the clouds as the Breach sealed. He saw an archdemon fly over Haven and fought Red Templars. He saw the Herald walk out of the blinding snow in the Frostbacks and out of death itself. He had seen Skyhold, an ancient fortress at the crown of the world itself, and now served its lord.

Before any of that he had been working nets, butchering fish and salting meat for the winter ahead.

Dominic ran into the village, in between the wooden frames with their thatched roofs, small fires burning in the open doorways with people huddled around in the chill and damp.

"Who is that?"

"Is that Dominic?"

"What is he doing back?"

Dominic adjusted his shield on his back, twisted his belt around to adjust his sword at his hip and straightened up, walking slowly and casually back to his home.

After seeing some of the buildings in Haven and Redcliffe, he realized how poor the village looked in comparison. The wood of his parent's home was old and twisted. The planks weren't painted and were damp and splitting. The iron nails that held it together were orange with rust from the salty sea air and age.

He came up to the threshold, the door opened wide to help vent the smoke from the small cookfire burning with it. His mother was sitting near the fire, stitching up some clothing and glancing over at the pot of soup hanging in the iron pot suspended over the flames. Dominic gave a quiet knock on the door frame to get her attention.

"Maker bless me!" she cried and hopped up running across the one-room home to embrace her only boy. "My son! Maker, you're home safe!"

Dominic wrapped his arms around his mother. Had she always been so thin? "It's me, mother. It's me."

"Dominic, my son, I've been praying every day for you. Asking the Maker and the blessed Andraste to keep you safe. I've been so worried," she said, planting a big kiss on his cheek.

"I could feel it all the way across Ferelden," he said. "Mother, there are others with me. We are on a mission. Inquisition business. But I was hoping we could stay the night here before we need to go."

His mother's eyes were filled with joyous tears as she let go and nodded and gave all of the approvals he was hoping to get. The other three were coming into the village. The women, children and old men who were there were all standing outside now, gawking at them. A Templar, a mage and an elf. Dominic suddenly realized how out of place they all were in Bricker's Break.

"Dommyyyyyyyyy!" came the shrill scream of excitement from around the side of the house and a small blonde blur rushing toward him. He ducked down closer to the ground and scooped up his little sister, lifting her up above his shoulders.

"You're getting so big, Lily, I'm not even going to be able to pick you up soon," Dominic said to his little sister, spinning her around in a circle above his head. "I'll have to get bigger and stronger just to lift you."

He stopping spinning, hoisting his kid sister at his hip as she wrapped her small arms around his neck to hold on. Lina smiled, he noticed. It was the first time he had seen her smile since the sun dipped behind the rain clouds. Cain was walking slowly behind her, Anya close at this side helping him walk.

"Dommy, her ears are so pointy!" his sister said, pointing directly at Lina. The elf turned her head to the side. Lina almost looked embarrassed. He didn't think it was possible for her to get embarrassed.

"Lily, that's not very nice. You shouldn't point," he scolded. "That's Lina. She's an elf. You remember what Ser Damon told you about elves, right?"

Lily shook her head. Dominic rolled his eyes. "Come on Lily, he must have told you a hundred times. There are two kind of elves. Dalish elves, who live in the forest and have colorful markings on their faces. And there are city elves, who live in towns with people like you and me."

"And they have pointy ears!" Lily chimed in, obviously remembering something in a short spurt.

"Yes, they have pointy ears, Lily," he said, smiling at Lina. "They don't get as big as humans, but they're very strong and swift and very pretty. Isn't Miss Lina very pretty, Lily?"

"She's wet," Lily said.

Dominic laughed.

"Very wet," Lina agreed.

Dominic's mother shot her daughter a scolding look and walked out to Lina. "Come inside, dear. We'll find you something dry. You look soaked through." She looked at Cain and Anya and added. "The stew is almost done. I wasn't expecting guests, but you all can have that and I'll make something else for us."

"We wouldn't want to impose ma'am," Cain said. "We have our own rations we can-"

"Nonsense! It's no trouble, no trouble. We rarely get visitors, much less servants of the Herald of Andraste himself! Now come in, come in, before you catch cold," Dominic's mother continued.

They took turns changing out of their wet clothes and hung them up to dry. Dominic gave the stew a stir - fish, onions, kale and a few small potatoes - a hearty meal despite its humble origins. His mother always made the best stock, which made the best soups and stews.

As they ate, his mother shared stories about Dominic's childhood, much to his horror, although they all laughed as she told the stories. His first encounter with rashvine. Falling out of the boats and getting tangled in fishing nets. Chasing a mabari halfway through the woods after the dog stole his dinner roll. They were all in good fun, although he was sure his traveling companions probably thought much less of him afterward.

His mother offered to let them all sleep in the house, although there was hardly room enough for even two more people. Dominic had offered to sleep in the boathouse down the shore. It wasn't enclosed, so it would be cool and drafty, but he missed the late nights he would spend listening to the quiet lapping against the shore.

Lily wouldn't leave Lina alone all night and kept trying to grab her pointy elf ears. He had feared Lina might snap, but out of the rain and with a full stomach, that light had returned to her face. If she was annoyed by his little sister, she hid it well. She smiled and seemed content to dote on Lily all night, whether playing with dolls, braiding Lily's hair like the ladies in Orlais or singing softly to the little girl.

Cain and Anya asked about the nearby terrain, looking for somewhere where they could be alone for an hour or two. Dominic had raised an eyebrow at the request, but Cain's face quickly dispelled any impure intention. While the others had perked up from the rest and relaxation, he looked even worse than he had in the rain. Dominic wanted to ask, but knew better.

"_A knight does not question his superiors. He obeys and serves," _Ser Damon had taught.

They went off well after the sun set and the rain had subsided. The candles in the house were burning dimly and a quiet peace had settled in over the rest of the village. Lina was sitting on the floor with Lily attentively perched before her, taking in whatever nursery tales the elf could recall.

"Will you be OK if I leave for a few minutes?" he asked, interrupting her story about three little elves and the black wolf Lina was in the middle of telling.

"Yes, thank you," Lina said, smiling sweetly, then smiling back at his little sister. "I don't think your sister intends to go to sleep until I tell her _every _story I know."

Lily giggled. Dominic nodded. He wanted to slip away to visit Ser Damon, if he was still awake at this hour.

Dominic quickly slipped outside and across the way, tapping quietly on the wall of the small hut next door. While Dominic had grown up in a tiny home himself, Ser Damon's dwelling was barely large enough for two people to sit comfortably in. There was no door, just an old, weathered skin hanging over the portal.

"Come in," he heard the voice from within. Dominic lifted the skin to the side and slipped inside. Ser Damon was upright on the small pile of straw that was his bed, hands fumbling with some slats he was working into a basket. "Who calls on an old man this night?"

Ser Damon had gone blind in his advanced age. No one in the village was quite sure exactly how old he was. Some said he was nearly eighty, others boasted that he was more than a century old, if not older than that. But his eyes were foggy and unseeing, what was left of his hair was white as snow and his skin was wrinkled everywhere upon his body.

"It's me, Dominic," he said, sitting down on the bare floor next to Ser Damon.

"Dominic?" Ser Damon said, stopping his weaving. "Oh child, I am glad to hear that you have returned home safely. Is the war over already?"

"No, not over. Me and some other soldiers from the Inquisition are staying just tonight. We are on a mission, tracking down the enemy nearby on the coast. Templars, corrupted with a strange red lyrium," he explained.

"Sounds horrid," the aged knight said.

"It is," Dominic agreed. "I just wanted to stop by and tell you that I'm finally on my way to becoming a knight. I've been training with a Templar and my steps are getting much better. I remember all your lessons, teacher. And I wanted to show you this."

Dominic slowly drew the sword the quartermaster had given him, pulling it slowly so Ser Damon could hear it. He turned it around, hilt first and pushed it lightly into the knight's hand. His old, gnarled fingers, trembling with old age, wrapped around the grip and locked into place. Although his arms were weak and shaky, he lifted the sword in the air slowly, as steadily as any trained warrior might. His hand didn't shake as he held it, as if the blade had taken his sword arm back in time fifty years.

"I remembered how the Orlesians took your sword they day they defeated you in battle. I wanted to give you the opportunity to hold a blade once more, teacher," Dominic said.

He had continued to fight with the Queen's army even into his later years, well past an age when he could keep up with the hit-and-run tactics of the Rebel Queen's fighters. He had trusted Dominic with the story of his last battle, one he didn't tell often.

He stood in the square of a small town as the chevaliers marched in. Ser Damon alone, pulled his sword and challenged the Orlesian leader to single combat. Their leader, a much younger and stronger man, but an honorable one. They crossed blades in the square for his life.

He had been no match for the chevalier. The skilled leader disarmed him and had spared his life. But he had taken Ser Damon's sword and shield, stripping him of his honor as a knight and the Orlesians occupied the town.

Ser Damon had never lifted another blade since, he had said. He retired to the coast, coming to Bricker's Break, where he had lived ever since.

Now, as he held the sword in his hand, he smiled, a smile poked full of holes with teeth long fallen out or lost to rot. But he smiled and laughed and lifted the sword even higher in the air for a moment longer, then lowered it and handed it back to Dominic. Tears had formed in the corners of his eyes and he shakily wiped them away.

"Thank you for that, my son. You have always been a good student and you have the heart of a true knight," Ser Damon said. "I only have one more lesson for you, and then I want you to go out, serve your lord and your land and not return here until your duty is done. Do you understand?"

"Yes, teacher. Of course."

Ser Damon leaned forward, reaching for Dominic's hand, which he gave to the elderly knight. Ser Damon held the younger man's hand between his rough and wrinkled palms.

"My last lesson, the hardest one, the one I could never complete myself," he paused for a long moment. "A knight must be willing to lay down his life for the good of others. A knight must not flee from his duty, his service and his oath, not even in the face of death. A knight must not live a long, long life in regret of things he should have done."

Dominic swallowed. He pulled his hand back. He had listened to Ser Damon's lessons and stories since he was a child. He had joined the Inquisition to start on the path to becoming a knight himself. Maybe he was just misunderstanding.

"Was it a lie, teacher?" he asked shakily, fearing the answer.

Ser Damon shed another tear. But did not hesitate and nodded. His head hung in shame.

"Yes. I did not fight. I ran. I hid. I threw away my duty. I came here. Somewhere where the I thought I could forget the bloodshed, the futility of the fighting. I have been haunted. This long life has been my curse. My penance for failing."

Dominic's throat was tight. He quickly sheathed his sword, snapping the blade back into the scabbard. "All your 'lessons.' Were those lies too?" He stood up, ready to storm out. To run home. To never see Ser Damon again.

"No, child. Everything I have taught you, even what I am trying to teach you now, is all true," Ser Damon said. "You have the spirit and the will. You can become a great knight, Dominic. You can do what I could not." He paused, wringing his hands together, not lifting his head. "I don't ask your forgiveness."

"You won't get it," Dominic said, pushed aside the skin to the entrance and burst out into the cool evening air.

There were tears in his eyes. Ser Damon wasn't a true knight. He was a deserter. A fraud. A liar. The stories he had told, Dominic had eaten them all up. He hung on every word. He practiced the mantras in his head over and over, applying them daily to his life.

The day the Inquisition gave him his blade, shield and armor had been the best day of his life. Now he could just feel their weight hanging on his body. The scabbard knocked annoyingly at his thigh. The shield was making his shoulders sore. The metal breastplate didn't fit right and was chafing him under the arms.

He wanted to rip it all off and throw it into the sea. This entire dream was foolish. He was a fisherman, not a soldier. Cain had proven that day in and day out as they trained. He wasn't getting better. He was lucky the Red Templars he had fought hadn't killed him yet.

He was just one soldier. One of hundreds who had joined the Inquisition. They wouldn't miss him. Commander Cullen or Inquisitor Trevelyan wouldn't even know his name if they saw him. They didn't need him.

He stood outside the door of his home, fists clenched. He swallowed again, forcing it down his throat, which was so tight as he tried not to cry. He wanted to forget all of Ser Damon's stupid lessons. But he stood, unable to forget any of them.

"_A knight must protect the weak, lest they become the slaves of the strong."_

"_A knight must always be aware of his surroundings, even in a foreign place."_

"_A knight must be capable of mercy, if he is to expect mercy in his hour of defeat."_

"_A knight must better himself every day in body, mind and soul."_

"_A knight must not flee from his duty, his service and his oath, not even in the face of death."_

"_A knight must not flee from his duty, his service and his oath."_

"_A knight must not flee…"_

"I will not flee," he whispered to himself. "I will do my duty. I will serve. I will fulfill my oath."

He stepped inside.

His mother and Lina were chatting quietly. Lily had fallen asleep on the floor right where she had been sitting listening to stories. Someone had draped a thin blanket over her on the floor.

He sat down with the two women. Lina glanced at him while listening to his mother, then gave him another look as he stared blankly down at the table.

"What's wrong, Dominic?" she asked, obviously noticing something was wrong.

"Is Ser Damon well?" his mother followed.

"He's fine," Dominic said. "I'm fine."

He could tell neither woman believed him.

But he believed it, still.


	10. Chapter 10

**Ten**

"Watch your flank, Dominic!"

The young man turned just in time to bring his shield up and catch the gnarled, iron blade.

Cain threw a slash to his right to try to buy the teen a little breathing room. The cavern was filled with the smells of smoke, stinking filth, red lyrium fumes and smoldering flesh. The passageway was narrow, the only thing that was keeping them alive at the moment.

"Cain look out!" A snap of lightning whizzed past his head and he leapt back just as the large warhammer smashed down into the stone in the place where he was standing. The hulking hurlock gave a roar and hefted the giant maul back over his shoulder.

Dominic slashed, raking his sword across the armor of the smaller hurlock, slashing a rusted breastplate and spilling black, putrid blood out of the fresh wound. The darkspawn was not phased and pressed the attack.

He could hear more scraping their way up from underground. Their chittering and gibbering echoed throughout the stone cavern, long shadows cast down the corridor as the red lyrium crystals pulsed in the dark.

"Fall back before we're overrun!" Cain shouted, slashing down on the hurlock that was occupying Dominic's attention. His chest rocked again as another arrow punctured his armor, just below the first that had pierced his breastplate and caught on the rings underneath. "Somebody kill that fucking archer!"

"I can't see it!" Lina shouted from behind him as she loosed another arrow at the alpha. "He's somewhere in the darkness."

"Move!" Anya screamed.

He could feel vibrations in the ether as the mage pulled power into herself. She was drawing heavily into the Fade. The fight had dragged on for too long and she was tiring, drawing on the power too deeply, putting herself at risk of weakening the Veil or inadvertently pulling across something wicked.

"Hold, Dominic!" he bellowed. The young man pulled to the side and ducked behind his shield and Cain pulled up his sword to defend as he could feel Anya ready the spell.

The mage stepped up, extending her left arm in front of her as she sprayed a cone of lightning into the corridor. The bolts crept along the walls, bending through the air. The lightning piercing through the smaller hurlock, broke upon the larger alpha. The white and purple light illuminated the narrow hall, showing another half dozen darkspawn charging toward them.

The archer was pulling his bowstring when an arrow took it in the face.

Red energy glowed off the hurlock alpha as it lowered its head and charged.

"Get out!" Cain had enough time to yell as the darkspawn plowed into him, knocking him off his feet. He hit the stone floor, the wind pushed out of his lungs. He rolled out of the way as the giant maul smashed a hole into the rock, red lyrium energy pulsing off the weapon.

The others didn't listen. Two weak balls of lightning hit the alpha in the chest and Dominic was over him, his shield forward defensively as Cain slid back and pushed himself to his feet again.

There was darkspawn screaming deeper in the tunnel.

The hurlock lifted his maul and Dominic attacked. He stabbed ahead, finding a joint between the black, blood-slickened armor of the giant darkspawn. The sword wedged as he tried to pull it back, and the darkspawn swung one of his muscled arms, swatting Dominic into the wall as if he were a paper doll.

The tiny red lyrium crystals on its warped face, inside its mouth behind jagged teeth, and the larger crystal growing out of its spine all pulsed with energy again. The alpha roared a challenge as Cain stepped up again, both hands clasped around the hilt of his greatsword as he stepped in front of a dazed Dominic to shield him.

Anya was throwing a barrage of lightning at the darkspawn, bolts so weak they were nothing but gnats to the giant darkspawn. The rapid fire kept it distracted, but Cain could feel Anya's strength slipping quickly. She had lived her entire life in the Circle. She wasn't battle-trained and tested and the protracted fight was beyond her abilities.

His own chest was heaving and sweat poured across his entire body. Sharp lances of pain were shooting up his right side. The first arrow had been stopped but the second had found purchase through his armor and was wedged somewhere in his side. One of the other darkspawn had left a new rend in his breastplate on the left side and something had clawed him across the face, leaving streaks of hot blood running across his left cheek.

He flared his power and the lightning bolts from Anya ceasely instantly as he drew on his anti-magic. She cried aloud at the sudden surge, her magical ability unexpected neutralized. He was exhausted, but he pulled within the arcane strength inside him now just to keep him going.

"Get Dominic and Anya out of here! That's an order!" he shouted again and charged the hurlock.

The stone beneath his feet was slick with black darkspawn blood as he pushed ahead, throwing hard slashes down on the hurlock. It lifted its great maul to block them, but the anti-magic sapped the red energy that it had been gathering. Each strike he landed pulled on his reserve of stamina.

The darkspawn took another wide swing with the large hammer and Cain threw himself forward, slamming his shoulder into the darkspawn's flank to avoid the massive strike, but forcing himself deeper into the cavern.

"Cain!" someone yelled from behind him but he couldn't hear. As he gathered his balance he quickly twirled and slashed his blade down, pulsing his anti-magic harder as he drove the edge of the sword into the thick, iron greaves covering the darkspawn's thigh. Another arrow zipped past him, striking the wall of the cavern.

There was fire deeper down the hall. The darkspawn shrieks were louder. All he could see were two fiery wisps twirling in the air.

A meaty fist slammed him in the back and he fell forward, losing his grip on his sword. Cain fell on top of another darkspawn corpse - one someone had killed earlier in the fight - smearing black blood across the front of him and snapping the arrow shaft that was protruding from his armor. A searing pain shot up his ribcage as he hit the ground.

He rolled onto his back as the maul exploded into the darkspawn corpse, just inches from his head. Blood and bits of bone sprayed against his face, blinding his left eye.

"_Move or you're dead!" _his training screamed to him. He rolled again onto his stomach and crawled forward, scraping his way up onto his forearms and up to his feet like a dog. The fiery wisps were closer now. In between the glow and the shadows he could see the glint of silver armor - blue and white stripes streaming in the darkness. "_Warden!"_

The flames dispatched another darkspawn and the Warden bolted forward past Cain. He turned his head as the flaming blades trailed fire down the corridor. The alpha swung his maul once more, but the Warden slipped past it as if it had been moving at half-speed.

The blades cut swiftly back and forth, leaving smoldering ash as they slashed armor and corrupted flesh. The lumbering darkspawn tried to grab the Warden, but the warrior spun, her feet kicking and run up the wall to get around the darkspawn's flank.

The hurlock let out a great roar and stumbled forward, trying to reach toward it back. Cain could hear metal shearing and the blades came around, cutting its muscled throat. The hurlock teetered and fell, shaking the entire corridor as its massive body hit the ground in a thud.

The corridor was quiet.

The Warden approached him as he stood, his hand covering the arrow wound in his side. It was a woman. An elf. And a Dalish. Thin flowing lines of a tattoo covered most her face in an ink that was fiery red. She looked Cain top to bottom quickly and was reaching into pouches hanging off her belt.

"If you want to live, you will remain still," she said, pouring some type of liquid on a rag. "Drink this, quickly." She tossed him a small bottle filled with a greenish-brown liquid that didn't look very appetizing. He pulled out the small stopper and drank it, and it tasted nearly as bad as it had looked.

Before he could even drop the glass from his lips, she was wiping the scratch on the side of his face with the rag, pressing it down into the cuts. "Hold that," she said, reaching back down to her belt.

"There will be pain," she said as she threw his hand aside from the arrow wound. Her fingers pricked in between the pieces of armor and she harshly tugged on the arrowhead. Cain grunted in pain as she ripped it out of his side, the barbs tearing more of his flesh on the way out. Her fingers dabbed into a salve and she roughly rubbed it into the wound. The paste burned like fire and she placed a bandage on top of it. "Hold that too. The darkspawn typically poison their arrows. If you don't start throwing up blood in the next five minutes, that's a good sign. It could be days before the taint starts to take root in your blood, if you've been infected," the Dalish said flatly.

She was older, her skin slightly creased and her face was covered with scars. Her blonde hair was tied back to keep it off of her forehead. He features were flat and angular. Her eyes were narrow and focused as she worked.

"Are there other wounded?" she asked.

"Maybe our other fighter, Dominic," Cain said. His wounds were still burning from whatever she had put on him.

She turned and walked away toward the others without another word.

The entire mission had been a disaster from the start.

After leaving Bricker's Break, they had made their way to the spot marked on the map, a crack in the canyon. They had creeped through the darkness until the cave opened into the cove. A ship sat at anchor, filled with chests of red lyrium.

Dead Red Templars were scattered all over the stony shore. That hadn't been the problem.

It was the live Red Templars, uncorrupted Templars, mages and darkspawn that were still living within. Together. Not killing each other.

Two Red Templars were holding a hurlock, it shrieked and struggled but it was being held in check by a mage. A young woman, olive-skinned, wearing a dark robe. She held her palm open just before the spitting darkspawn's face. The crystals growing out of the Red Templars pulsed in rhythm, red energy lacing over the darkspawn. It would struggle and try to break free, only to be wracked with some internal pain obviously at the behest of the mage.

Cain could feel the blood magic that coursed through her.

The pool of black and red blood intermixed at the hurlock's feet boiled as she drew power from it. Her lips moved wordlessly until red light began to pour from the darkspawn's eyes and mouth as if fire was burning inside his skull.

The Red Templars released the darkspawn. It fell to the ground and cowered, looking around at all of the warriors surrounded it. "Rise, you disgusting creature," the blood mage commanded. The darkspawn stood, shakily. But it stood, obeying.

The blood mage turned her head. "The wards have been tripped. We are not alone," she declared. "Find the intruders and kill them!"

If they had stepped over wards, it was nothing Cain or Anya had noticed. All of the soldiers, Templars and darkspawn alike, snapped to attention. The blood mage and some of the other Templars were making their way to the ship. Interrupted and discovered, they weren't intending to stay.

"Etienne, recall the others. Prepare to leave. We must not linger," she ordered.

Cain had pushed the others back down the cavern, but their hurried scrambling was loud and caught the attention of their attackers. Before they could escape, the first of the darkspawn was on them.

He now shuffled down the hall, past the bodies of darkspawn and Red Templars, both, that they had felled in the retreat. The stink of darkspawn flesh was more powerful that even the red lyrium, although his head wasn't swimming from the fumes of the lyrium.

Since the incident in the Hinterlands, he had completely cut himself off. He had turned over his vials to Anya for her safekeeping. She had offered, no, wanted, to help him. She had suggested a swift break from lyrium, although dangerous, might be the best to protect him from the effects of the red lyrium. Both substances were fundamentally the same, so as long as he was medicating with the blue lyrium, the red would be just as potent, she suggested.

It appeared to be working. His lungs weren't burning and he didn't feel that bitter chalkiness upon his lips now, at least, not as strongly as he had before.

But his entire body ached after the exertion, and he had already been feeling lousy before the pitched fighting. Without any lyrium, he had felt feverish and weak ever since leaving the Hinterlands. He couldn't sleep. When he manage to slip into sleep, he was plagued with nightmares, twisted visions of reality that were strange and frightening. When he woke, his head pounded and his mouth had gone dry. Inside him, his body screamed for lyrium.

By the fourth day, as he walked, the landscape before him seemed fuzzy and odd. The air was hazy.. His body was on fire and at times he felt confused as to whether he awake or trapped in another nightmare.

Anya was always at his side, weaving small spells that were undetectable to the others but that helped to calm his mind, steady his vision. As she worked her subtle magic, the energy she bent from the Fade seemed to fill the holes the lyrium was punching inside him, if only for a few moments.

When they had reached Bricker's Break, she had suggested he try to purge his system, to force out whatever lyrium might be lingering. He had agreed, trusting her intuition. At night, while Dominic and Lina stayed at the house, they had walked about a mile from time to a secluded part of the shore. Anya gave him a weak mixture of poisonous herbs.

He spent hours on his knees violently vomiting in the sea until his throat burned with acid and his stomach lurched dry. He sipped water, only to throw it up moments later. Even at his weakest, she forced him to use his powers, to summon the spirit energy within him as in an effort to burn the power of any lyrium latently holding in his blood.

Cain pushed as much energy as he could out of him until he was barely able to support himself on all fours and the exertion caused his stomach to twist and heave again.

Anya was weak too, from standing so close as he pulsed his Templar power. Each time he could tell she was in anguish as he cut her from the Fade, blocking her connection and sapping her strength. She did not waver.

By the time the effects of the poisons faded hours later, Anya had to hold him up and help him walk back to the village. She helped lay him down on the floor of the small home and cast a sleep spell over him to help him rest.

For the first night in many days, he did not dream and slept deeply.

Now, the disgust at the site of the corrupted Red Templars and his fatigue from the previous night were what he felt. Not rage, confusion or paralysis from the red lyrium. He moved on, not wanting to jinx himself if it was perhaps luck, and nothing more, that kept him grounded in the moment.

"This one should be fine," the Dalish said as she finished inspecting Dominic. "I've given him a draught to protect against any miasma, but I do not think he will sicken."

"Thank you. For your help," Cain said. "How did you know we were here?"

"I did not. I sensed that the darkspawn here were alarmed, under attack by some sort of enemy. They were frightened and confused, so I rushed to investigate and lend aid to their foes," the Dalish said.

"We're glad for it, Warden," Dominic said. "If you hadn't showed up-"

"You'd all be dead. This is known. Why are their blood mages here and what are these corrupted Templars?" the Warden asked.

She was blunt and serious. Cain had never met a Grey Warden that wasn't constantly grim. There must be some out there somewhere, but he had never crossed one. He knew they carried a heavy burden in defending against the Blight, but they had always struck him as joyless. "Red Templars. They have been imbibing red lyrium. It has been spreading across the land. We don't know why. Templars can draw upon for strength like regular lyrium, but it drives them mad and transforms them."

The Warden stepped past Cain back down the cavern and crouched next to the body of the hurlock alpha she had killed. She touched the large crystal that had fused into the back of the darkspawn.

"This is not natural. Darkspawn avoid lyrium pockets in the Deep Roads, the same as they would avoid fire. Darkspawn are feral, but they are not without cunning. They would not willing expose themselves to this so-called red lyrium," the Warden said. "It is also odd. I did not sense this creature. The consciousness of an alpha of this size would dominate the voices of weaker creatures. Yet I did not sense it at all."

The Warden stood, wiping darkspawn blood off of her fingers. "We should move on. There are still many tunnels underneath here where other creatures may be lurking."

"We need to examine that cove, if it's safe," Cain said. "We are Inquisition. We were sent to investigate the red lyrium here. There was a large shipment loaded onto a boat. Are there crystals growing in the tunnels below?"

The Warden shook her head. "None that I have seen. This is the first I have seen of this new lyrium. I have stalked many of the tunnels in this area and not come across it before. But there are hundreds of passes in these cliffs."

The others were all looking at the Warden, sizing her up. She was short for an elf, even shorter than Lina. But unlike Lina she was muscled, clearly powerful. Also unlike Lina, she was not pretty. Like a Warden, her features were hard and severe. Dominic was twisting his mouth as he was clearly inspecting the blood writing on the elf's face.

If the Warden felt uncomfortable, she didn't show it. "I did not introduce myself, my apologies. My name is Sylanni, formerly of the Dalish Clan Halluvhen, now serving faithfully with the Grey Wardens of Ferelden."

Cain nodded. "Our pleasure, Warden. Again, thank your for your assistance. If you hadn't shown up, we'd be in far worse shape now. I'm Cain Wygard, formerly of the Templar Order. This is Dominic, Lina and Anya of the Circle of Ferelden."

Sylanni bowed slightly at the waist. "With respect, Inquisition. I am aware the Inquisition had camps further east from here. Your leader had turned a troublesome cult of Andraste to his cause. He had crossed paths with some darkspawn in the area too. He did fine work in dispatching them."

"Are you alone, Sylanni, or are their other Wardens nearby?" Cain asked.

Sylanni shook her head. "The Wardens are still few in Ferelden and most are," she paused. "Indisposed with other business. I am but one, and often prefer to travel the wilderness alone."

Cain nodded and waved for the others to follow him back down the corridor to the cove. Sylanni reminded them to step carefully to avoid darkspawn blood, even stepping on it with their boots. In the cove, there were now additional darkspawn corpses littering the stony shore. The boat was gone.

Cain's eyes focused on the body of a Templar. He did not appear to be corrupted like the others. He was still wearing his standard Templar's regalia, his ornate sword just under the surface of the water next to him. It was not standard issue. Only a senior Templar was allowed to equip himself with custom equipment. He hadn't remembered seeing this body before.

The darkspawn that were dead, most appeared normal. He spotted another hurlock with some red lyrium crystals beginning to grow from the flesh. He now noticed a mage that appeared to have been gored, with several deep claw marks across his chest. There was a badly burned darkspawn corpse next to him.

"Lina, search the mage. Watch out for darkspawn blood." Cain ordered. "Warden, did you kill this Templar?" he asked, pointing to the one lying face down in the water.

"Yes," she answered. "I thought he might be an ally, but he was clearly with the others. He was in command, ordered some of those infected with the red lyrium to attack me. It was odd, though, that the darkspawn did not try to attack him."

Quite odd, Cain thought. What had he seen earlier in the cove? The mage was working some kind of spell on the darkspawn. She was working with the Red Templars. When she was done, the hurlock had followed her commands. He had never heard of a darkspawn answering to a human before.

"Were any of these darkspawn sentient?" he asked. He had heard reports of darkspawn that could talk and appeared to have free will that had attacked Vigil's Keep in Ferelden after the Blight. They might have been rumors, stories woven by victims of darkspawn attacks along the coast north of Denerim,

"None," Sylanni answered. "Those are … rare." There was more that she wasn't saying. Warden business. They were secretive.

Cain rolled over the Templar and looked at him. The blood mage had called out to a man by name, Etienne. This Templar looked Orlesian. But his armor was more telling. On top of the flaming sword of Andraste, someone had crudely scorched the armor with the sunburst symbol of the Chantry.

Sylanni had stabbed him in the joints of his armor at the shoulder and cut him deep in the abdomen. Cain looked over his pallid skin, but didn't see any of the telltate signs of red lyrium corruption. No red veins were rising under his skin, his dead eyes still appeared to be brown without any scarlet hues creeping in. His flesh was still soft and pliable, not dried and hardening.

Cain unbuckled the armor, lifting the breastplate away from his body. His wounds were more gruesome looking with the steel pulled away. He drew his knife and cut open the man's undershirt. Here too, his chest looked clear of any corruption.

He reached down to the belt and fished around to the right side where a Templar typically carried their lyrium. His hands fished inside the pouch, expecting to find nothing, but instead felt two small vials. He pulled them out and looked. One full, one half full. Both containing blue lyrium.

Cain held them up over his shoulder. "Anya, can you check these. Is this regular lyrium?" He was working hard to separate himself from the stuff. Even looking at it, he could feel his body calling to him, begging to drink it. He didn't even want to smell it, for fear that it would make the cravings stronger.

He flipped over the templar's left arm, looking for an identification. The Templars engraved their names at the wrist of the gauntlets, to be able to identify bodies on the battlefield. _Etienne du Montfort. _A cadet branch of the Montfort house in Chateau Haine. That was the right amount of diluted noble blood to allow a man to rise to rank quickly in the Chantry.

"It's normal, Cain," Anya said behind him, having finished examining the lyrium.

"But why?" he asked. "Why is this Templar with them? And why are Templars and Red Templars with a blood mage. And why are there darkspawn here?"

He cut the leather belt at the Templar's waist and pulled it away. He searched the other pockets on the belt. Knives, rations, tools, flint, miscellaneous personal effects, gold and silver coins.

"There's nothing on this mage," Lina said from across the cover. "He's not carrying anything at all, actually. Like someone picked him clean already."

There was a small prayer book in one of the pouches too. It wasn't uncommon for Templars to carry - Cain used to have one himself - but this one was different. Templars often carried a small book of script of the first chapter of Transfigurations, the basis for the Templar's duties.

But this was different. The book was titled "Prayers of Penance" and contained several prayers pulled from all parts of the Chant. Each was numbered, but not with chapter and verses that he knew them to be from. The first one he recognized as from Transfigurations 10:

_The one who repents, who has faith,_

_Unshaken by the darkness of the world,_

_She shall know true peace._

The second prayer was from Trials 1, several chapters away from Transfigurations in the chant. Then a passage from Benedictions 6, another from Transfigurations 12, and then from Silence 3, then Trials 5. He had read enough prayer books in his life to know that most kept in a single book.

The last page of the prayerbook had a small map, with numbers placed along a winding path. They started at the sea and went inland until they reached a final destination - "Penitence." It was a pilgrim's prayerbook, obviously, but he didn't recognize the way and he wasn't aware of any shrines by that name.

In the back cover, there were two stamps left in ink - a red Chantry sunburst ringed by the word's "Path of Penitence" and a second, a heraldic symbol that Cain didn't recognize. He didn't know the crest, but he understood its purpose. It was a customs stamp, typically it would be stamped upon crates or barrels of goods to show they had been inspected for contraband.

Below the stamps in a thin script, with a note he had heard before:

"_The sun rises in the east, but falls red in the west._

_Chosen of the Flaming Bride, walk the Path of Penitence,_

_Be cleansed of sin and born anew under the Red Sun._

_The Sun will rise righteous over the Chantry."_

_We await your arrival, Etienne du Montfort,_

_In faith,_

_Carissa Antierra_

Again, the mention of this Red Sun they had found in the earlier note. From this note, attached to a Chantry prayerbook, it appeared to be a religious cult. Various cults of the Maker or Andraste popped up from time to time.

The previous note to the blood mage Martellius had made fairly clear that these cultists were not aligned with the Elder One, who opposed the Inquisition. There had been Red Templars in the cove with the blood mage, but they had also apparently killed several Red Templars and taken the spoils of red lyrium that had been mined.

None of that made sense. And there were darkspawn corrupted by red lyrium too, which the Warden said she had not seen before and that she did not expect as typical.

"What now, Sergeant?" Dominic asked. "They got away with the red lyrium. We were too late."

The trail of the red lyrium was cold. But this prayerbook had given a new lead.

"We need to return to Skyhold," Cain said, slipping the prayerbook into the pouch on his belt where his lyrium used to sit. "I need to speak with the Commander, but I think I know where the lyrium is headed."

"I would accompany you, Ser Wygard, if you will have me." It was the Warden who spoke. "I am concerned about these darkspawn. If this lyrium can corrupt these Templars to this state, I fear what might happen if it spreads to more of the hive."

Sylanni had already proven herself to be a fierce fighter and she might have more useful information about the darkspawn and the transformation. "Will the Wardens allow you to accompany us?"

The Dalish seemed offended by the question. "I am sworn to the Vigil, but we Wardens often act independently of the central command. We are sworn to do anything to combat the Blight, whatever it takes, wherever it may take us. If your Inquisition has information about this red lyrium, I must seek it out. My duty demands it."

A fair enough argument, Cain considered.

"Welcome aboard, Warden."


	11. Chapter 11

**Eleven**

The Right Hand of the Divine was severe, intense and frankly frightening.

The prayerbook sat in the middle of the war table and Cassandra Pentaghast paced back and forth, steaming. Commander Cullen stood at the edge of the table, his arms crossed over his chest. Sister Nightingale was leaning over western Orlais, her eyes darting back and forth between the pieces aligned on the map.

"It is not possible," Cassandra said, stopping again to address the other advisers of the Inquisition. "This path is not known, but to a few. Now you say there are blood mages, Templars, Red Templars and darkspawn working together? Are you certain you are not mistaken, Templar?"

She didn't believe him. Cain had the urge to give a smart-assed reply, but she was a Seeker. Although he could feel the lyrium fading in him day after day, she could destroy him with a flick of her wrist. When Seekers came, Templars made themselves scarce. A Seeker showing up was never a good omen.

"Absolutely, Seeker," Cain said, gripping his hands behind his back, speaking as respectfully as he could. "This prayerbook was on the body of a Templar, uncorrupted. The blood mage called out his name. The name in the book matched his identification."

"The armor was stolen, perhaps. A thief and imposter," Cassandra posited.

"Possible, I suppose. But unlikely, Seeker," Cain said again.

Leliana was looking at the very southwestern corner of the map, west of the Gamordan Peaks. There was barely anything there. No settlements. Just barren plains. She seemed to know too, as did Cassandra.

"What is this Path of Penitence?" Culllen asked. He was as in the dark as Cain. "I admit, I don't know all of the pilgrimages, but I've never heard of this one."

"Nor should you have," Cassandra said. "It is secret. Protected. It is not a path the faithful walk." She raised her eyebrow and glared at Cain. He had stumbled into something, something she didn't feel comfortable talking about, at least not in his presence. "I will be happy to explain to you, Commander. In private."

As he had suspected.

"Seeker, if I may speak," Cain said.

"You may not," she bit back.

Cassandra pulled Leliana away from the table and they were whispering to each other with their backs turned to the war table. Cain took the opportunity to look at Cullen for help.

His brows bent inward and he gave a slight shake of his head.

The Seeker had a reputation for being brusque. Cain trusted Cullen's assessment of the situation.

"You are dismissed, Templar," Cassandra said as she turned back to the war table with Leliana.

He didn't want to go. But Cain nodded and gave a slight bow. As he prepared to turn and leave, Cullen spoke up.

"No, stay," he said. Cassandra now turned her rage onto Cullen. Cain thought it might still be best to go, but he stood.

"Be reasonable, Cassandra," Cullen said. "Cain's initiative to investigate where the red lyrium was going has helped uncover this threat. It would be a mistake to send him away. I would request that he continue this investigation, unless you have good reasons to remove him."

"These are Chantry secrets, Commander," Cassandra hissed. "These are not things to discuss in the midst of the faithless Templars."

"Might I remind you Seeker, that I am one of those faithless Templars, too," Cullen said stepping forward into Cassandra's face. "I might also remind you that I, not you, command the Inquisition's forces. This is a threat. A threat I would see us stem now before it becomes greater."

"The Chantry may not mean much to you any more, Commander, but it is still something that should be protected. I understand that you have some history with this Templar, but just because he marches in here with some book is not a reason to trample what dignity is left in the Chantry," Cassandra fumed.

"So we should sit here while our enemies gain strength in order to protect the Chantry? Perhaps you have forgotten, Seeker, that the Chantry not only turned its back on us, it spit on us while we were walking away too. Now if you have information that will help our cause, you will give it to me now or you can head back to your prayers and your training dummies!"

"How dare you speak to me -"

"Enough!" Leliana interrupted, stepping between the two and pushing each away. She shot icy glares at both. Something in her face told Cain this was not the first time they had tried shouting each other into submission. He had remembered hearing the yelling the night after Haven, before Trevelyan had awoken. "This is no time for bickering."

Cullen had the decency to look somewhat abashed. Cassandra's eyes were as hot and fierce as ever.

"We need our agents and we need to trust them," Leliana said, looking at Cassandra. "And we need to be sensitive to this type of information, even in these darks times," she added, looking back at Cullen.

Leliana looked at Cassandra again. "I have many agents who could investigate this, but he is a Templar. He's exactly what we're going to need to get close, based on the information we have. I could send someone else, but the chance that they will be discovered is high."

Cassandra looked at Leliana and looked at Cain again, then back at Leliana. She let out an exasperated sigh. "I do not agree with this course of action," she announced.

"I know," Leliana replied. "But what choice do we have, Cassandra?"

Cassandra sighed again. She circled the table to come to western Orlais, where Leliana had been looking a moment ago. She shot another hard look at Cain. "This information does not leave this room. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Seeker," Cain said. He didn't dare to say more.

Cassandra looked at Cullen too, and he reluctantly nodded.

"The path to becoming a Seeker of Truth is long, arduous and dangerous. There are candidates who begin the training, but cannot complete it. Those who fail cannot return to the Chantry. They are made to walk the Path of Penitence," Cassandra said. Her finger snapped down to the map, to the southern-most settlement in Orlais.

"These failed Seekers are taken by a special ship from Mont-de-glace. They are taken to a landing at Sulfur Point," she traced her finger west across the Sundered Sea, stopping at the small inlet. "The path winds deep into the Sea of Ash, a volcanic wasteland. If they survive the crossing, they will arrive at Penitence, a fortress in exile, where they live out the rest of their lives in prayer, reflection and devotion."

Her finger had stopped in a blank spot in the middle of the Sea of Ash. There was nothing around it for miles. Cain wasn't familiar with Orlais, but everyone knew there was nothing habitable west of the Gamordans.

"It is also an exile for full Seekers who have lost their way from duties, for Revered Mothers who have turned from the Chantry or, occasionally, as a place to send politically difficult sisters who need to be removed from influence," Cassandra said.

"It is among the Chantrys, darker, secrets," Leliana said. Something in her voice hinted that she had been tasked with sending more than one person along the path. "The terrain is harsh. Many do not survive the trip to Penitence fortress. They either drink of the poisoned water, die of heat or thirst, are killed by the hostile wildlife or even throw themselves deep crevices where molten rock runs like rivers."

"A single person might be able to survive months, maybe years at Penitence before succumbing to hunger or disease. The Chantry does not leave them there without any means to survive, but it is difficult and nearly impossible for a single person," Cassandra said. "It is very rare for someone to be sent. In all my years serving the Divine, I am only aware of one failed Seeker there. His mind was badly damaged. He would not have survived the trek."

"There have been two affirmed sisters in the last five years," Leliana said. "One was an aging Revered Mother. The other was an upstart sister who was embezzling tithes to fund her brother's efforts to seize more land and title in Orlais. She murdered one Seeker who had come to investigate, in an attempt to cover up the plot."

"Every few years, the Chantry solicits volunteers from the sisterhood to make the pilgrimage to clear the path of the deceased, bring supplies to the fortress cleanse the temple within," Cassandra said. "They do not return. When they have completed their duties, they pray before the shrine of Andraste and give themselves willingly to the flames."

The picture they were painting looked pretty dreadful, Cain thought. There were stories sometimes of people in the Chantry who would suddenly disappear. There would be stories that circulated later about this Templar or that Sister, but it was nothing anyone ever thought to pursue, for fear they might be the next to disappear.

"So these cultists have taken up residences in the barren fortress?" Cullen asked.

Cassandra shook her head. "It is not possible. Penitence could not support an army. It does not have provisions for even dozens of men."

"If they have taken control of the vessel from Mont-de-glace, they could be bringing in supplies regularly," Leliana said. "That is obviously already happening. This Templar should not have been able to get passage across the bay. I would assume they have seized control of the route and are recruiting. It's not an ideal location, but it is remote and a person could build strength there, with careful planning."

"But who?" Cullen asked. "Who is able to pull together Templars, blood mages and darkspawn?"

There was a moment of silence as everyone gave the question some thought.

"A demon perhaps. A powerful one," Leliana answered.

"I should investigate this cult." Cassandra said. "I could speak with the Inquisitor and get leave."

"We should send more than that. Send an army, whatever we can spare." Cullen added. "Before it becomes more of a problem."

"They would see the soldiers coming for miles and pull within the fortress. It is not large, but it is strong," Leliana said. "There are some roving bands of darkspawn, the occasional bandit, some native tribes. It is built to withstand all. The entrance is hidden and the walls are tall, thick and strong. It is not advisable to assault it head-on."

"Then what are you suggesting?" Cullen asked.

"Let's get inside first," Leliana said, with a devious smile aimed at Cain. "They want Templars? We have one."

All three looked at him.

He suddenly wished he hadn't thought so much of the prayerbook.


	12. Chapter 12

**Twelve**

She was not welcome here.

There were rumors circulating about the Grey Wardens being connecting to the Inquisition's enemies.

If that were not enough, she was also Dalish.

Many of the soldiers had been eyeing Sylanni suspiciously since arrived. They peered over the griffon heraldry on her leathers. They snarled at the blue and white fabrics of her clothing. They stared, untrusting, at the fluid strokes of vallaslin on her face.

This place was Tarasyl'an Te'las, the dreamer had said. He was elvhen, but not of the People. Nor was he shemlem. Solas was none of those, but he was intelligent, well-studied and polite. He had apologized for not knowing as much about red lyrium as one of the durgen'len he traveled with. The dwarf was traveling with this Inquisitor he spoke of.

His information had been academic, curt and well-organized. His study at the base of the tower was little more than a table and some magical items and a half-complete fresco he was placing upon the walls.

She had stared for some time at the large, black figure in one of the paintings.

"Our enemy, Corypheus," Solas had said as he walked up next to her, his arms casually crossed over his chest. "It is said he was once an magister of the ancient Tevinter Imperium, one of those who breached the Fade was cast down as the first darkspawn. It was he who caused the Breach and has gathered forces that move against us now."

"Does he also command darkspawn?" Sylanni had asked.

"Surprisingly, no. We have seen Templars and Tevinter Cultists, but no darkspawn," Solas said.

"And Grey Wardens?"

"They are only rumors at this point, but yes, Grey Wardens too."

"But not darkspawn."

"No. Not that we have seen."

That confused her.

Sylanni had not heard of this Corypheus before and had not known that he was imprisoned in the Free Marches for centuries. It was alarming, but she was not a senior Warden yet. The Order had its secrets, as the Dalish had theirs. Those who needed to know, did. Those who did not would have to earn the knowledge.

The beautiful music thrummed through her mind once more, calling to her. It had gotten louder and more forceful inside her skull as they had traveled west toward Tarasyl'an Te'las.

The Wardens had told her of the Calling, but said it would not come for maybe thirty years. It was far too soon for her to be hearing that call, the irresistible music, so soon. It hadn't even been ten years since her Joining.

She recalled holding the cup in Vigil's Keep. She blessed Commander Caron with the old words before she lifted the chalice to her lips and drank of the putrid liquid.

She awoke on the floor, with the Commander and Seneschal Varel offering their hands to help her back to her feet. The other two recruits lie dead on the ground next to her, having choked on the vile ritual liquid.

She bowed her head on the cold floor and gave thanks to Sylaise before taking their hands and rising to her feet.

The shemlem here had given her her own room and she had immediately lit a fire in the hearth. As the flames roared, she tossed the fragrant tree moss in and let the aroma of it burning fill the room. Sylanni prostrated herself before the fire and gave thanks to once more to her patron for another day of life.

She pulled the yard of rope from her pack and sat crosslegged before the flames, knotting and unknotting the rope, just to keep busy.

There was too much stone around her. The small room was meant to be inviting and relaxing for guests, but she felt boxed in, like in the Deep Roads. The passages and tunnels she crept through were often narrow and slickened with darkspawn filth. She did not travel with others often and she took it upon herself to scout the darkest and more untraveled paths that ran under Ferelden.

Sylanni had not traveled south to the Brecilian or the Korcari Wilds. Those were tunnels she didn't want to scout.

The crackle of popping wood was drowned out as the sweet music returned to her skull. So soft and delicate, yet it powerfully tugged at her will.

She knew where that song led though and she denied it.

Sylanni placed the rope down on the floor and stood. She began to disrobe, sliding the leather and ring armor off of her body. The fire in the chamber had warmed the air and she did not feel chill as she stood nude before the hearth.

Slowly, she ran her hands over her skin, noting the familiar divots of scars, the tight, wrinkled spots that had been burned by fire, and the small bumps in her skin. She touched the rigid scars upon the right side of her face where a shriek had clawed her deeply in her first year. She found nothing unusual.

She lifted her arms and looked at them, noting the blue and red veins that were visible under her pale skin. She overlooked freckles, hairs and the pink flesh of new scars. She looked at the creases in her hands and joints. She bent low, gripping her ankles and bending in two to observe her feet and legs. She stretched her legs up one at a time, pulling the point of her toe up to her face while balancing carefully on the points of her other foot. She bent backward, arching her back and letting her fingers touch the stone floor in an arch. She pushed back, her feet and legs gracefully floating over as she tipped and fell back to her feet.

There were no signs of corruption. No blackened flesh. No hard, stone-like flesh. No stiffness or weakness in her joints. The music thrummed louder as she thought it and slipped back into her clothing, but she pushed it away and tried to block it.

"_I am not turning. Not yet," _she thought to herself. "_Ame amin halai lothi amin noamin heruamin."_

Darkspawn had poured through the wood so thick they blackened the forest.

The hunters tried to hold the line as the clan fled and the masters tried to get to the halla to the aravaels. But the corrupted ones came in numberless waves, swarming the camp. They cut down children, they cut down the craftsmen and the hahrens.

Keeper Hallu stood in the center of the camp, shouting invocations in the old elvish and throwing spells with such ferocity that she had never seen. Fire, ice and storm all beckoned to his calling as he stood against the tide of the darkspawn before him.

He sang with sorrow and regret, knowing that it was his fault the clan was overrun. He had wanted to linger a while longer to study the ancient engravings they had stumbled upon at the base of the lone statute of the Dread Wolf deep in the wood.

Sylanni and the other hunters had warned that there were darkspawn about, in greater numbers that would be considered usual. Some had warned that it was a bad omen to dote upon the Dread Wolf so deep in the wood.

The Keeper had not listened.

As the wave of darkspawn tore him apart even as he continued to spew fire and frost from his staff, his First had screamed for everyone to run.

Sylanni could only remember that she ran north until the stars lit the sky above her.

The clan was broken.

She had found three other survivors. Fenlan was hurt so badly and sick with Blight. Erriani was unharmed, but she had lost her mate in the fighting and her two children to the darkspawn. She did not weep, just quietly mouthed prayed to Falon'din to give them safe passage to the Beyond. Paven's eyes were dead and he found he could not speak.

They lit fires to wait for others. Fenlan died before the next morning. No one else came after two days. The survivors spoke briefly. The clan had been shattered. They agreed to part ways.

Erianni said she was going to try to go back for the dead. Paven stood and walked wordlessly to the east, deeper into the wood, alone.

Sylanni resigned herself to move north in an attempt to find another clan. She trekked with great sorrow. All of the knowledge of Clan Halluvhen had been lost in a single day, beyond what stories and recountings she herself knew. But she was no hahren, just a hunter.

Most of the clans had fled at the coming of the Blight. Sylanni wandered the Brecilian for weeks, hunting and traveling alone before she came across another clan. They graciously took her in, despite their fear of her carrying Blight.

It was a year alone in the wood before she first heard that it was a Dalish hunter who combated the Blight as a Grey Warden. It was a young hunter, Lyna Mahariel of Clan Sabrae, they said. Within weeks that news changed. Mahariel had died slaying the fearsome archdemon in the shemlen capital. Her sacrifice was honored throughout all of Ferelden, even by the shemlen.

When the news from the shemlen was that these Grey Wardens were now gathering along the coast in the north, Sylanni took leave of her foster clan.

She arrived at their gate in winter and demanded they take her in. The Commander appreciated her spirit. One of the first Wardens he had Joined at this Vigil's Keep was a Dalish, he said.

He Joined her. She lived. The others didn't. Sylaise had protected her.

Sylanni never met this Velanna the Commander had spoken of.

There was a soft knock on her door.

"You may enter," Sylanni said as she was finishing buckling her armor back into place.

The door creaked open slightly and the young shem stuck his head in. "I just wanted to see if you were doing well," the young man said.

"The lodgings are adequate," she answered dryly.

"Good, good," he said as he stepped nervously into the room. "I was thinking your kind didn't often stay in, well, castles."

"My kind?" Sylanni questioned.

The young shem looked embarrassed and nervous. "Dalish. Oh, yes, that didn't come out right. I meant-"

"The Grey Wardens have a similar fortress outside Amaranthine. I am accustomed to human living arrangements," she said.

"Right, of course. I should have thought of that. Sorry."

"There is no offense meant. The shemlen do not have many dealings with the People. There is little understanding between our kinds," she said, using the same word to try to ease the young man who was nearly quaking with fear.

"I've just, I've never met a Dalish elf before you. I just wanted to learn a little bit about your people," he said. "If you'd be willing to share."

"We are not creatures to be studied. If the shemlen wanted to learn of our culture, they would not have spent the last thousand years trying to destroy it," she said.

The young man's lips turned down. "Right, I'm sorry. I should be going," he said and turned back toward the door.

"Wait." Sylanni stopped him. She had been cold. Years of isolation in the wild made her less than cordial to others. The other Wardens had often noted how distant she was. "My apologies. I am not accustomed to spending time in the company of others and do not often speak of my heritage. I am a Grey Warden now and have been separated from the People for many years."

"Don't you get lonely?" he asked.

"No. When I am not underground, I am often amongst the nature of this world. I am at peace in that world, among the beasts and the plants. I do not require companionship. I have my duty and my gods. I do not want for more."

The young man nodded up and down slightly as he listened. "I don't think I could do that," he said. "But I wanted to ask about your tattoo, it's very beautiful." He shook his head and snapped stiff again. "If you don't mind me asking, uh, and mind me saying, um, Warden."

He appeared young and innocent. From what he had spoken since they left the Storm Coast, he was from a small village nearby. He had lived there all his life. He knew little of the world, little of his own people much less anything of the elvhen.

She would indulge him.

"These marking are the vallaslin. When a child of the People comes of age, he or she is honored with the ritual. The vallaslin pays homage to one of our gods. I honor Sylaise, the Heartkeeper, who gave the gift of flame, healing arts and weaving to the elvhen. She is the mightiest of our gods, and I praise her for lighting the way during the many trials of my life."

The young man was hung on every word. "Does it hurt?"

"The pain is excruciating. But to cry out is disgrace. I endured the ritual as the keeper bestowed me with the vallaslin. As all elvhen should."

"We don't have any rituals like that, where I come from," the young man said.

"Shemlen only concern themselves with that wants and needs of the now. They have no mind for their history. The elvhen have lost much, and we do what we can to preserve our culture."

That made the young man look sad again. She realized she was not being very kind again, speaking of the shemlen's nature, true as it was, to them directly. Some were worthy of respect, she had to remember. Commander Caron was human, after all.

"Will you stay with the Inquisition? To help? I saw you fight in the cave before. You were incredible," he said. "I'm sure they could use someone like you."

"I cannot stay. My duties will require me elsewhere," she said. That beautiful music was strumming up in her mind again as she spoke. That was not the duty she intended as she pushed it away. "I am awaiting the return of your Sergeant Wygard, to see if he has any additional information about these strange darkspawn we encountered. Then I shall return to my duty."

He frowned again. "That's too bad. They say the Grey Wardens are our enemies, but I don't believe that. The Warden fight the Blight. They would never join a darkspawn."

The darkspawn called The Architect had made such an offer to the Commander. He had declined it and struck the powerful mage down, so the records at Vigil Keep said. Sylanni had never encountered a sentient darkspawn herself. She had slain many mindless drones, and doubted that even if one could talk, it could convince her to spare its life, not after all the darkspawn had taken of her.

He had no reason to trust her, but he believed in the goodness of what the Wardens stood for, as she did. It was a good and pure sentiment. He was innocent and young, likely naive, but still, Sylanni felt warmed by the thought.

He was shemlen, but he seemed to be cut of good stock.

"You may ask me more about the Dalish, if you wish."


	13. Chapter 13

**Thirteen**

Sister Nightingale's plan was as sound as it was terrifying.

If this Red Sun was courting Templars and blood mages, why not march in the front door? They had Red Templars, but they were also apparently also recruiting uncorrupted Templars.

The part of the plan he relished least was that he would need to once again don the Templar armor for the ruse. He never wanted to slip back into that clunky Chantry plate. It was necessary, but not an experience he was looking forward to.

He also didn't like that they wanted to send others with him. Sister Nightingale had suggested using both Dominic and Anya too. Dominic could pose as a Templar and Anya could pretend to be a blood mage. He had protested. Dominic was no Templar and the second they needed Anya to use blood magic, the entire charade would be thrown away. Either that, or he hoped Anya would be quick enough to concoct some lie.

It was a risk. But if they came together as a package, it would be a more tantalizing offering to this Red Sun. Two Templars already working together with a blood mage? They would have a hard time resisting that, Leliana argued.

Cain had mentioned Lina, but an elf would be out of place, they had all agreed. But he had mentioned her beauty, singing voice and questionable history to Nightingale and suggested she might make an appropriate agent. The spymaster had sent for her immediately. Dominic would be heartbroken.

There were other preparations to make. Cullen and Nightingale had agreed to work out the details.

Now Cain was stepping down the winding staircase to the undercroft, where Cullen had arranged for him to meet with the Inquisition's arcanist to discuss some of the more mysterious aspects of his mission. He pushed open the door to reveal the small forge nestled deep under Skyhold's main hall.

The Arcanist hopped up and scurried across the forge like a dog excited to see its owner.

The dwarf was bubbling with excitement. "Oh, it's you! Commander Cullen said you'd be coming by. I've been reading through your report over and over. So many questions, so many interesting, unanswered questions!"

"About the darkspawn we found?" Cain asked.

"About everything! Red lyrium, darkspawn, red lyrium darkspawn, all of it," Dagna said. "The commander said you're not taking lyrium any more? What's that like? What are you feeling? Does it feel like a normal ache or something magicky?"

Cain shot a look at the smith, who just shook his head. Apparently this was the status quo for the dwarf, Cain understood with one look from Harritt.

"It's unpleasant," Cain answered. "But that's not why I'm here," he reminded her in case she had forgotten.

"Right, right, sorry. I don't get to study many Templars. Always glowering and towering and grumbling 'I'm not some mage, dwarf, grumble, grumble,'" Dagna said in a mocking, masculine tone. "Not many try to go off the lyrium either. The withdrawals and the side effects are well known - memory loss, extreme thirst, confusion, blindness, impotence and so on and so on - but nobody ever studies what the good things are if someone can get off of it. There's got to be some good sides of it too, if I could just have some more time and…"

"Dagna," Cain interrupted.

"Right, sorry. Magic is just so thrilling. Get carried away sometimes," she said sheepishly, grinding her foot into the floor like a child caught misbehaving.

"About the darkspawn we found?"

"Right!" she hopped off the ground and ran to a desk that was scattered with papers and crystals and powders and twisted black iron tools that looked like they belonged in a dungeon. She returned with a page and large crystal of red lyrium in her gloved hand.

Cain instinctively took a step back as he noticed the large shard.

"Oh, right! Sorry," Dagna said. "Don't worry, this piece is dormant, dead." She shook the crystal in her hand and put it up to her ear like she was listening to it. "I think."

"That's not very comforting," Cain said.

Dagna smiled. "Well you never can be sure with these types of things. But the Tranquil at the Circle used to work with lyrium a lot and you could see how it changed when they were done enchanting with it. This piece is like that, mostly."

Cain wondered how many pieces of "dormant" red lyrium she had down here. Did the Inquisitor know? Did Varric Tethras know? If he did, Cain would have wagered his clothes that the merchant dwarf would throw the stuff over the waterfall peeking out of the back wall of the undercroft.

Red lyrium wasn't something that anyone should be studying, he thought.

"So what do you know about lyrium?" Dagna asked him.

"It's like a raw magic. One of my mentors once told me it's like if you took magic and froze it like ice then stuck it underground," Cain said. "It's energy, but physical."

Dagna considered the explanation for a second. Her eyes looked up toward the ceiling. If the dwarf was full of gears instead of bones and blood, they were all turning right now, he was sure.

"That's not bad. It lacks the certain academic quality that all the mages would dress it up with, but sure. That'll work," Dagna said. "So lyrium is like energy and it exists both here and in the Fade. In the Fade, from what I can gather from all the research, it's very similar to here. Maybe more potent. You don't have to worry about blowing up the mine or poisoning yourself with the gas and then you've got a lot of sad mining caste families who lose their fortune because of one accident...

Cain shot her another look.

"Right, sorry. So lyrium is like a bridge. And it's alive. Not like you or me. It's different, weird. But it's not like a rock. That's why people can use it for enchanting. You don't just force it into a sword or a staff or whatever, you have to _coax _it in there, carefully. So lyrium is alive and red lyrium is alive too, but it's sick. With Blight."

Cain must have looked surprised. He took another step back from Dagna at the mention. He had already had enough bad experiences with red lyrium without also contracting the taint from it.

It certainly corrupted and transformed people like the Blight. But it didn't cause them to fall apart like the taint he had seen.

"I know. Lyrium getting the Blight? Weird. Really weird. I had thought that myself and then when one of Varric's friends came to the same conclusion, I'm really starting to think there is something there. Needs more study, but it definitely looks like it," Dagna said.

"So what does that tell us?" Cain asked, hoping to keep the excitable dwarf on track.

"So red lyrium has the Blight, so what it does to people is like what lyrium does to you, plus what Blight does to darkspawn. Gives you powers, makes you strong, but it also messes with your head weird. It makes you like a darkspawn - feral, wild, angry, hungry. All of your base emotions, it takes those and makes them ten times more powerful," Dagna explained.

Cain definitely understood that logic. He had felt it all himself. The red lyrium, even the fumes, slipped into that place in him the lyrium filled and dredged up all of the worst things in him. He remembered the day in the mine with Anya again.

He acted without being able to think. His mind was blank, just a voice screaming to him from somewhere else, controlling him, pushing him forward. It wasn't until his own mind, his conscience, could break through that he could regain himself.

Cain nodded to Dagna in understanding. She continued. "What I don't get is why someone would feed red lyrium to a darkspawn. One, who signs up to be the lyrium feeder to a wild darkspawn? But two, what would they gain from it? Darkspawn can't become Templars, I don't think, and they already have the strength and ferocity of the Blight. So I don't know what they would gain."

"It's not just from exposure?" Cain asked. There were red lyrium veins growing everywhere now. It had only been in Kirkwall and one thaig once. Now it was everywhere. Somehow. The Warden Sylanni had said the darkspawn wouldn't go near lyrium, but that was regular lyrium. The Dalish had admitted she had never seen red lyrium before the day she rescued Cain.

"Darkspawn are wild, but they're not dumb. They know just as well as any dwarf in the Deep Roads that you don't mess with lyrium unless you're crazy, desperate or from the mining caste and looking to make a fortune," Dagna said. "They wouldn't stay near it any more than you, or me." She shook the inert crystal. "Well maybe not me."

This wasn't sounding very productive. Commander Cullen had thought Dagna might have some insight into what he had found and what it meant. She had narrowed down some questions, but didn't have any answered, it seemed.

"So someone is feeding darkspawn red lyrium somewhere, but we don't know why?" Cain asked.

"Right. I know. I wish I knew more. I'm going to keep studying these samples. I asked the Commander to try to bring me a live one, if he can find it. He didn't like that idea, so I'll have to do what I can with the dead pieces," Dagna said with disappointment. It quickly passed as she perked up. "Buuuuut, I do have something else that might help you. Templar-y stuff."

Cain crossed his arms and motioned with his one hand for her to go on.

"So Templars take lyrium to use their powers. Remember when I said lyrium is a bridge between here and the Fade? Well it's that, but it's also like a key. Since it's in both worlds, it's kind of like a key that allows you to get between the two. Not like the Inquisitior and his mark. That's different. That's like kicking a hole in a wall and being able to just magically put the wall back together in one piece. Totally different.

"Mages need mana to cast their spells and they get that by pulling it from the Fade. Templars are able to block that process and stop a mage from casting spells or block a spell that's already on its way. What you do is kind of like what a mage does, just a different way," Dagna said.

Cain furrowed his brow and must have looked confused. Dagna groaned and tried again.

"So let's think of it like, like, your mouth. No, that's dumb. Well, maybe. OK, your mouth! So your mouth is like the barrier between here and there. Mana is like a big glass of water. Lyrium allows you to open your mouth and bring the glass to your lips. A mage has an innate ability and understanding about how to take that mana and form it into something neat, so she can tip the glass and drink the water and it does good stuff for her, OK?

"A Templar doesn't know how to do that, so it's like you don't know how to drink, right? You open your mouth and you tip the glass, but you can't swallow it. So the water goes in your mouth and just kind of sits there until it fills up and spills out. You suck in all the mana so the mage can't get any," Dagna said.

"I understand, I think," Cain said. He wasn't really sure. The dwarf talked so fast and rambling and she bounced between real concepts and goofy analogies that is was hard to keep pace.

"OK good. So a Red Templar is kind of similar. They don't drink like a mage, but they don't just hold it in like a Templar, either. The red lyrium allows them, ummm, well, let's see," the dwarf placed her hand on her chin and those gears were turning again. "It allows them to … spit! Yes spit! They can't drink the water and get the good stuff, but they can just force it back out. That's why some of the Red Templars are able to use balls of that wild, red energy. Or like how Knight Commander Meredith could pull a huge amount of power from it, but not really control it."

The Knight Commander had done things that Cain would have once thought impossible. She floated in the air. She erupted with red lyrium energy, exploding off her like fireworks. She brought statutes in the Gallows to life and had them attack the Champion. Any one of those things should have been impossible for her.

"So that's why my anti-magic was useful against the Red Templars at the mine?" Cain said, suddenly pulling the pieces together. "We're drawing water from the same well, even though we're using different buckets."

Dagna smiled so wide Cain thought she might split her lips. She hopped up and down and clapped her hands. "Yes, exactly!" She rushed forward and hugged around Cain's waist before he could even stop her and shook side to side. She suddenly stopped, stepped back and straightened her clothes. "Sorry about that. But let me just say, I like you a lot Cain Wygard. You get it. You get me."

Cain laughed. It had been a long time since he had reason to laugh. "I wouldn't go that far, Dagna."

"You're doing better than most," she teased. "The Templars are too vulnerable to red lyrium to be a standing army against the Red Templars. But if we come under attack here at Skyhold, our Templars could be one of our best defenses. I told that to Commander Cullen. Wish we had more. Wish some would let me study them, too, but I said that before, didn't I?"

Cain nodded and smiled. He didn't get the Arcanist as she had suggested, but he liked her. Chatting with her, well, listening to her ramble, was a welcome change of pace from the last few weeks. She didn't dim in spite of the darkness everywhere around them.

"I'm glad I could help the Inquisition," Cain said.

"Well, I'm not done just yet," Dagna said. "I have one more thing for you. Something tangible this time. Not just words."

The dwarf turned around and scanned the forge, searching for something but not seeing it right away. "Harritt, where did you put it?"

"_You _put it there behind your enchanting bench," he said, pointing.

"Oh right!" Dagna scurried off and came back carrying a large item wrapped in a loose cloth. Cain had a fair idea what was underneath. It was longer than the dwarf but she lifted it up to him flat on her palms. "Go ahead. Unwrap it."

Cain pulled the brown cloth back, revealing a newly-forged and shined greatsword within, just as he had expected.

The blade shimmered with a silver-blue, recently oiled and cleaned so that it was nearly mirror-like. It had a thin, long fuller down the length of the blade. The crossguard was wide and thick, the grip wrapped and banded with black leather, tapered down toward the bottom into a rounded pommel.

Cain lifted the sword off her palms in his left hand and pulled his greatsword from his back with his right hand. The difference in weight was immediately apparent. The fuller on the new blade had something to do with it, but the steel was a lighter and different material than his Templar's blade. The flared edge near the base of the Templar blade had given it an unusual weightiness in the midsection. The balance felt different in the new blade, although the wider crossguard gave it a similar heft in that section.

Cain handed his Templar's blade to Dagna, who carefully lowered the large sword in her hands as he took hold of the new blade in both of his hands. He twisted from side to side, testing the balance. The lightness would take some getting used to, but the balance was almost the same so he wouldn't have to adjust his style. He stepped back and gave a few quick cuts through the air, listening as the sword sung as it cut the the air.

"An amazing gift," Cain said, quite pleased with the new sword.

"That's all Master Harritt," Dagna said. From the back of the forge, Harritt tipped his head to Cain and went back to his work. "The steel is forged from Paragon's Luster. Good dwarven metal. Not as fancy as silverite, but definitely a high-quality steel. Lighter than your typical steel and stronger too so it keeps a better edge and can take a harder hit. Commander Cullen asked us to have it commissioned for you after he received your report from the Storm Coast."

Cain admired the new sword, peering down the length of the blade. Well-folded, solidly built. It was a blade worthy of a noble or a general of an army.

"That's not all," Dagna said with a smile. She pointed to the pommel of the sword. "Push a little of that Templar power you use into the blade, down toward the bottom."

Cain gripped the sword and focused a little energy into the blade, watching in awe as a greenish-gold light flowed up along the blade, shining and pulsing. He was wide-eyed. He had seen enchanted swords before, but never wielded one himself. This wasn't fire, frost or electric though.

Dagna chimed in, on cue. "It's called a cleansing rune," she said. "Folded it into the pommel there while Harritt was honing the blade. The magic helps counter corruption - both red lyrium and darkspawn taint. Seemed appropriate based on where the Commander was sending you. That wasn't part of the order, so let's keep that one a secret between the two of us," Dagna said with a wink. "Commander doesn't like the magicky stuff, you know how it is."

Master Harritt stepped up to the two of them, wiping his hands with a filthy cloth. "Swords of this caliber deserve a name, son," the smith said.

Red lyrium and darkspawn taint. Cain thought over the words for a second. He was willingly going to throw himself into both for the Inquisition. There was something there beyond the Inquisition's reach and he had begun to unearth it. He needed to expose it and end it. For himself, for the others, for the world.

Once he thought he should run, try to escape it all. The Order has used him and the Chantry had spit him out. He would wither away, eaten away by the lyrium and fade somewhere. But he had found a place in the Inquisition. He could do good here. He had to do good here.

Faith no longer guided his purpose as it once had.

There was only one thing that kept him pushing forward now.

"Duty."


	14. Chapter 14

**Fourteen**

"That's _the _Iron Bull!"

Dominic could barely contain his excitement, glancing across the pub at the giant Qunari sitting on a bench against the far wall. He drank deeply of his cup and flipped through leaflets of paper quietly.

"Go talk to him," Anya urged.

"Are you crazy? I wouldn't want to interrupt. He's probably reading something important. Would rip me in half or something," Dominic said, lowering his head back to his cup.

The singer was plucking lightly at her lute and the quiet hum of conversation filled the Herald's Rest.

"I'd bet our Warden could take him," Lina said, swirling the red wine in her glass as she eyed across the room. "If he wasn't so grey, I wouldn't mind taking him either."

Anya rolled her eyes in disgust. Cain chuckled. Dominic looked confused.

Sylanni said nothing at first, but was clearly sizing up the Qunari herself. She gave a slight "hrmpf" and drank of her mug again.

"All right, enough gawking," Cain said. He had asked them all to join him here. It had been about a little more than a week since they returned to Skyhold. Tomorrow they would all be heading out. He wanted the chance to explain the plan as a whole again. But he also wanted an opportunity to get everyone together one more time.

After weeks on the road together, it felt good to be with company again. It reminded him of treks through the Vimmark Mountains tracking apostates with the other Templars, sitting around the barracks in the evenings playing cards or having a few pints at the Hanged Man on off nights.

He had been alone since leaving Kirkwall. The memories these others had brought back had been good ones.

He hadn't realized how lonely he had been.

Cain rolled out a small map of Orlais on the table. "One more time."

* * *

Nightingale's agents had come to Lina while she was leaning over the ramparts, watching some of the Inquisition men sparring back and forth in the yard.

"You're required in the rookery," the one had said.

"If I say no?" she had tested.

"You can return to the camp. If that's your wish. Or you can make use of your skills and be worth something."

She went.

The spymaster was a cold bitch. She sounded blunt and curt, but each word she spoke was loaded and her eyes never looked away. Nightingale had played the Game. And lost, from what Lina had heard around camp.

Her eyes scanned Lina's body. She asked her to sing. She tested her knifework. She dragged her down to the yard to fire a bow. She checked her penmanship. Asked very personal questions about her carnal exploits. Questioned her prejudices. Asked her about her past.

Lina lied. The spymaster called her on it. Nightingale already knew everything about her, before she even crested the stairs.

Lina liked it.

"We can use her," Nightingale said after all of her tests. "There is a lot you must learn in a short time if you don't want to get killed. If you serve well, I will find more use for you. If you want to get your hands bloody, I have plenty of work for you, if you prove yourself."

"You won't be disappointed," Lina said, lifting her head and eyeing Nightingale with a challenge in her eye.

Nightingale slapped her face. Lina smirked. Nightingale hit her again, harder.

Lina wiped a little blood from her lip with the back of her hand.

"Are we clear?" Nightingale said with that cold burn in her eyes. She was ruthless.

"Absolutely, spymaster," Lina said with another smirk.

The spymaster didn't slap her a third time.

They stripped her of her name and gave her a new one. Singer. The spymaster sent her with a senior agent - Harper - a human woman who had that same cold, stern look as Nightingale.

"Nightingale says you like killing Orlesians," Harper said, with a thick southern Orlesian accent.

"The ones who deserve it," Lina said.

Harper smiled. "Then you and I share a common passion."

The training was quick and intense. Harper could teach her more on the road. It would be a long ride to Mont-de-glace and they would have plenty of inns and taverns to stop at along the way. Perfect opportunities to practice their craft.

* * *

They were going to give him Templar armor.

Actual, heavy Templar armor. And a shield with the flaming sword of Andraste on it. And lyrium.

He promised Cain not to drink it under any circumstance.

Dominic was just happy to be included. He wasn't an experienced soldier, but Sergeant Wygard had specifically requested him, he said. He was to do what he did best - ask naive questions.

His ignorance might be one of their best tools to dredge up information. He probably should have been offended. Instead, he felt a little proud that he could be helpful.

There was a chance the enemy might try to force him to eat red lyrium, Cain explained.

"_A knight must not flee from his duty, his service and his oath, not even in the face of death," _Dominic remembered.

"I don't eat that much," Dominic joked.

Lina was in the middle of sipping from her wine and laughed, spraying the wine across the table. It was her third glass since they sat down.

He didn't think he was that funny.

Anya wiped the wine off of her sleeves, looking annoyed.

The Templar armor was going to be much heavier than what the Inquisition had given him. If he couldn't keep up, he would be left behind before they arrived at Mont-de-glace. For his own safety. Sergeant Wygard made that blatantly clear too.

They would walk the distance from Jader to Mont-de-glace, so there would be plenty of time to acclimate to the armor and to continue working on his swordwork. Dominic knew snippets of the Chant, but he would need to be thoroughly drilled on it in order to be a convincing Templar. He might be able to pass his inexperience off on his age and upbringing for a short time if he drew suspicion, but if he was proving to be too useless, they'd either kill him or feed him red lyrium.

He would have to do better.

* * *

Anya didn't know how to act more like a blood mage.

The thought of having to try was concerning.

The Arcanist had provided her with a shard of a crystal that she could use to send one-way messages to the Inquisition. There would be no response. The crystal was one of the most important pieces of the mission and they weren't even going to hide it.

The mages were fashioning her a new staff and were mounting the paleish blue crystal right at the top of it. The seamstresses were also quickly altering some additional robes and dresses that some of the Orlesian rebels had with them.

If she was going to play the part of an accomplished blood mage, she was going to need to look it, they said. Gold, jewels, lace, silk. She was to play a pet of a noble in the Free Marches, sheltered in his house for his own personal uses, with enough influence to keep her hidden from the Circle.

Hers was the most dangerous part. She spent the last four days conversing with the rebel mages, to try to glean as much information about how a blood mage should act. They knew surprisingly as little as she did. They had all be sheltered in Circles once too. The only experience a Circle mage had with blood magic was the occasional ill-placed book in the library and the apprentice dragged off screaming by the Templars, never to be seen again.

She hoped they wouldn't ask for a demonstration of her magic.

She hoped that more than anything.

* * *

This shemlen keep was not known to Sylanni.

It did not appear on maps, not even those that the Wardens had sketched of some of the routes in and out of the Deep Roads in that part of the west. The charts she could recall in her head only had a few topside crossings noted, most were close to the mountains.

The area had not been well-explored because there were still numerous darkspawn that populated the passages in and around the Abyssal Reach. It was a darkspawn stronghold, one that the Wardens of Orlais had tried to chip at over the centuries. They had not been successful. Yet.

The supposed shemlem stronghold was deep to the west, in the middle of the vast, barren plain. This path was supposed to start at one Sulfur Point on the banks of the sea. It followed the river north until it broke west. That river extended far to the north to the mountains.

A Warden and a Dalish would not be able to gain passage on the shemlen ships from this Mont-de-glace.

But these shemlen were toying with darkspawn, crossing the spawn with this dangerous red lyrium. It needed to be investigated and stopped.

The beautiful music was pounding in her head daily. The reports returning from the front were more frequent. The Wardens of Orlais had allied with the Venatori, the servants of the ancient darkspawn Corypheus. She would not have believed it herself until she had been allowed to read the explanation from Senior Warden Jean-Marc Stroud.

The Calling the Wardens were hearing was false, he claimed.

Sylanni continued to examine her flesh daily for signs of corruption. There was none. This Stroud had reached a similar conclusion.

The Wardens were gathering in the Western Approach and at Adamant Fortress.

Her path was west too, but she could not rely on the others for help.

She would walk the path alone, as she always had.

* * *

"Once we have an idea of the enemy's strength, we will pass word to Lina and she will make contact with the Inquisition's forces. When the army is ready to strike, we will do what we can from within to disrupt the enemy and claim the keep," Cain finished explaining.

Cain omitted one part. Whoever this Red Sun was, he would find and neutralize them.

Without a strong leader, cults quickly scattered and failed.

If he could also find this blood mage Carissa Antierra, he would end her too.

"I will not lie," he said to Anya and Dominic. "Once we make our move, we will be in grave danger. I don't know if we'll be able to escape and rejoin the Inquisition forces attacking the fortress. There's a good chance we'll be quickly overwhelmed."

Dominic drank of his cup and Anya's eyes seemed to go blank. She withdrew into her own mind.

"I have committed to this mission for the Inquisition. You two are under no obligation. I may not be able to protect you once we're inside," Cain said.

They were both so young. Anya had only recently gained her freedom from the Circle and was seeing the world for the first time. Dominic had not been enslaved to the mages' tower, but he was no different. He had lived his entire life in a small town.

Cain was prepared to die.

The initial sickness of the lyrium withdrawal had been merciless, but it had faded. He did not sweat or vomit or ache as he had weeks ago. But every day the hole was growing deeper inside him. He would wake in the middle of the night and find himself on the walls of Skyhold, standing at the edge of the rampart and shivering with cold.

He couldn't remember when he got out of bed or how he had gotten there. There were times during the day when he could not focus, where he saw people walking and saw their lips moving but he could not hear and could not follow as if he was frozen in time. He had been keeping a tally for the last week in order to remember the day. Time seemed to slip away without him realizing.

Cain had lost weight. He did not have an appetite and the drink he poured down his throat seemed to vanish before ever quenching his thirst.

Even now, he was struggling to remember all the details of the plan and continue to stay on task to review it with the others. The walls of the Herald's Rest seemed indistinct, as if covered in a haze. The air moved and shadows flickered in and out of the periphery of his vision.

He hadn't dared to tell Cullen.

"There are few Templars who have successfully stopped using the lyrium," the Seeker had said. "Most give up. The majority of the rest who do not return do not survive."

He had no one else to turn to. Cassandra Pentaghast did not trust him and did not like him, but she had a surprisingly sympathetic ear when he sought her out for advice. He must have been looking wan, because the severe tone she took had softened considerably. "There is no known curative that can ease the symptoms. The only proven remedy is-"

"No," Cain said, knowing exactly what she was about to say. It was unbearably hot. The heat from the forges made the upper rooms warmer than most places of the keep, but he was sure the burning sensation he was feeling under his skin was not due to that. "I won't."

"If the lyrium withdrawal is affecting you this severely, you cannot expect to succeed in your mission," Cassandra said bluntly. "We should abandon this plan."

"No," he said sternly again. "No. I must see this through."

The Seeker frowned.

She had no aid to give, he realized. She was Chantry, through and through. All she knew was how to leash Templars and keep them chained.

Anya was staring at him. He met her eyes. Ever since the day in the mine, she had been at his side, trying to ease his suffering. She had soothed what she could, but she did not know the depth of the pain he was holding within.

"I won't let you do this alone," Anya said. "Whatever the cost."

Dominic placed his empty cup down on the table.

"A knight must not flee from his duty, his service and his oath, not even in the face of death," he said.

Lina nodded.

"I cannot accompany you, but I will do what I can to stem this threat," Sylanni said. "_Dareth shiral. _Creators guide your steps."

Cain rolled the map of Orlais back up and tied it. It was settled.

Sylanni stood and left.

The others sat in silence for a moment, soaking in the gravity of their cause.

Lina swallowed the remainder of her wine. "So Dominic, you better go over there and talk to _the _Iron Bull right now or I'm going to tell him you're interested in riding his Qunari dreadnought."

"What? Lina, no, don't," Dominic said.

"Then you better get up and go," she teased.

"No Lina, he's busy, I said-"

Lina began to stand up from her seat and Dominic bolted up out of his chair. "OK! OK! I'll do it," he said.

Lina laughed. "I'm coming with."

"He's only into redheads," Anya added.

"We'll see," she said.

Lina scampered across the pub, pulling a lagging Dominic behind her.

Anya reached across the table and grabbed Cain's hand. Her fingertips held him lightly and she looked deeply into his eyes again. "You don't have to do this," she said softly.

Her hazel eyes glowed in the dim of the pub. The bard began to softly strum the chords of Empress of Fire. The Iron Bull guffawed loudly at the back wall.

She looked like Mae.

They had often met in the chapel at the Gallows. She had grown up in Starkhaven but was transferred to the Circle in Kirkwall as a child. She had a great love of the Chant and they would kneel and recite it together every night together before the marble statue of Andraste.

Mae would take his hands while she prayed, squeezing his palms tightly. Every night as they finished their prayers, her cheeks would be streaked with tears.

Knight Commander Meredith caught word of their prayers. She disapproved. She demanded he cease contact with her immediately. He didn't.

The Knight Commander called for her to be made Tranquil. First Enchanter Orsino objected. Meredith agreed to allow her to be Harrowed. She was too young.

He still could recall the touch of the Knight Commanders cold fingers pulling him out of bed in the middle of the night. She dragged him to the Harrowing chamber. They dragged in Mae. She hadn't even had time to dress. They forced the lyrium upon her.

An hour passed as the Templars stood vigilant. A second hour passed.

"She has failed," the Knight Commander declared.

"She needs more time, Meredith, for Maker's sake. She's young, You pulled her out of her bed and she was frightened," Orsino argued.

"She has failed." Meredith repeated.

"No, another hour! Be reasonable Meredith. You've given other mages twice as long. She will come back," the First Enchanter pleaded.

"She has failed," Meredith said a third time. "There will be no more discussion. Cain."

The Knight Commander demanded. Her eyes bore into him. He tried to resist. "That is an order, Templar. Do your duty or I will have your head."

With one order, she had sentenced the mage. It was not justice. It was execution.

His greatsword weighed a thousand pounds. He drove it down and dropped it from his grip, leaving the bloody blade on the cold stone floor. He turned and walked out of the chamber without sparing the Knight Commander another glance.

She had killed his faith.

She had killed love.

If the Path of Penitence offered salvation, he would gladly walk it. If he could enter Penitence and do some good, it might suffice.

Cain squeezed Anya's hand back and returned a weak smile.

"There is nothing I've ever needed to do more."


	15. Chapter 15

**Fifteen**

The stone floor under her bed was soaked with tears.

The entire tower shook. There were spells being weaved and thrown. There were explosions and tremors of force that rumbled the floor.

There was screaming. So much screaming.

Anya hid under her bed on the first floor the Circle Tower. Every time the floor vibrated or a shriek echoed down the stairs, she cried a little more. Her eyes poured but she held her hands firmly clamped over her mouth to not make a noise.

Every now and then, one of the twisted abominations would skulk through the room, shambling past the overturned and burned furniture in the apprentice quarters. She held as still as a corpse, watching the feet slide past her bed and out of the room before she even drew another breath.

At some point she fell asleep. When she awoke he was there.

Another boy, the same age as her.

She couldn't ever remember seeing him in the Circle Tower before.

The tower was quieter than it had been before. Whatever fighting was going on in the upper levels had died down.

"Who are you?" Anya whispered to the boy.

"I'm Po. I was hiding over there," he pointed indistinctly to the other side of the room. "I saw you here. I wanted to help."

"Go away," Anya said. "They'll find us if you're here."

"No, I know a spell. It makes me invisible. Watch."

The abomination that was dragging in circles around the floor was coming again. Po slid out from under the bed and walked _toward _the monster. Anya cupped her hands over her mouth and began crying again. She wanted to scream. The monster was going to kill him.

Po walked right up next to it. The abomination shuffled past, without taking notice. Po stepped right next to it, but the demon-twisted mage didn't even feel him there. As it shuffled out the door, he came back and slid under the bed with her again.

"Why did you do that!" Anya whispered angrily and began smacking him. "It could have killed you. Leave me alone!"

"I want to help. I want to help you," he said. blocking her slapping hands. "Stop, or it will hear you."

Anya stopped. She cried. Po grabbed her hand. His hands were icy cold, but as he touched her, she was suddenly less afraid. She kept crying but Po quietly tried to soothe her.

"Shoosh, shush," Po said. "It's OK. Don't be scared. Don't be afraid." As he spoke, she felt less and less afraid. After a minute, she was breathing steadily and her body had calmed.

"I can teach you that spell," Po offered. "It will keep you safe."

Anya nodded her head.

"Don't worry. This will help you."

He taught her the spell. It was so simple.

"You're safe now. Try to sleep," Po said. "I'll watch out for the demons. Don't worry. I'll always be with you, Anya."

She fell asleep. When she woke, Po was gone.

She never saw him again.

Ever since that day, Anya had never felt afraid, even in times when she should be terrified. She was never troubled by nightmares. When she walked the Fade, she never felt the eyes of demons lurking in the shadows, like the others mages.

It wasn't right.

She felt the same way about this mission. She knew it was dangerous. She knew she could be killed. She should be filled with dread. But there was nothing there but numbness.

The bed was well-made and the blankets were soft and warm, but she couldn't sleep. Anya slipped out from under the covers. Her thin nightgown clung to her body. The night air was chill in the mountains, but she didn't want to fully dress. She slipped her feet into her shoes and crept out of the room.

The Inquisition soldiers were patrolling the walls and standing on the towers, but she quickly slipped to the door next to hers, giving two quick, soft knocks. There was no answer. She knocked two more times, a little harder.

"Go away," Cain's voice came from within. His words slurred. He sounded drunk.

"Cain, it's me," she said to the door. She tried the handle but it was locked. "Cain, let me in."

"Leave me alone," he said again. "I want to be alone."

"Cain, you don't sound well," she jiggled the doorknob again and tried to push, but it was barred. "Please Cain. Don't shut me out."

It was quiet for a second. There was a shuffling. She could hear the deadbolt being pulled aside, the knob turned and the door cracked open slightly. Anya pushed it open.

Two glass bottles were empty on the bed and she could see the glint of firelight on broken shards of glass on the floor.

Cain slouched at the edge of the bed, lifting another glass to his lips and throwing his head back.

The glow of blue lyrium shone from the bottle as it filled his mouth, a bead of luminescent sludge slowly running out of the corner of his mouth and down his chin.

He emptied the small vial and tossed it forward, letting the glass shatter on the floor before him. His head dropped down onto his chest.

How much lyrium had he imbibed?

Anya stepped inside and closed the door behind her. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the small table next to the bed. The small glass next to it had a mouthful left in it and a chip out of the rim. A small smear of blood was on the glass around the jagged piece of broken glass. There was a matching cut and blood on his lip.

"Cain," she said softly, sadly, disappointed.

"I couldn't do it," Cain turned his hand over and limp on his lap. "I can't break these _fucking_ chains." His hands rolled into fists as he lifted his hands.

"You were doing it, Cain. You were-"

"No," he said sharply. "I was pulling, but it was pulling much harder. We've all heard the stories of the old Templars and the addicts. It was all the same. I had to. I had to do this. For the mission. To protect Dominic. To protect you."

His lips curled. He was disgusted. Disgusted with himself. Angry at his own weakness.

He relaxed his hands. "This is what I am. This is what I'll always be. Another fucking slave. A fucking mindless dog to set upon our enemies until I'm used up and thrown away."

"We could have stayed."

"I won't just sit here and let the sickness consume me. If I'm nothing but a tool, I would rather break being used than rust and crumble."

Anya walked to the bed, pushed the two empty lyrium vials away and sat next to him.

"They made me kill her," he confessed.

"They could have taken any Templar, but the Knight Commander made sure it was me," Cain said. "Mae would quake every night as we prayed in the chapel. She was so afraid. She didn't want to be a mage. She just wanted to be normal. She sung the Chant under tears every night and begged me for help.

"I had arranged for them to smuggle her out of the city, to take her to a remote cloister somewhere where she would be safe. I would try to destroy her phylactery and then run to meet her. Two nights before everything was arranged they pulled us both out of bed to the Harrowing chamber."

He was quiet for a moment. He wrung his hands and breathed slowly. He pulled back and punched a fist into his palm.

"She barely had enough time to wake in the Fade, much less complete the test. The Knight Commander declared her a failure. She made me strike the killing blow."

His placed his right hand on top of the left and rolled his fingers as if he was gripping the hilt of his greatsword.

"And I obeyed. I _murdered _her because the Chantry deemed it necessary to protect us from magic." His fingers fanned out and relaxed again.

"I tried to convince myself it was right. My plans were foolish, an apostate and Templar running away. We never would have made it. I tried to convince myself that she might have run from me too once she was free and then put others in danger.

"All I could convince myself of was that I had killed her for no reason," Cain said.

Cain lifted his left hand to his face, resting his thumb under his chin and his index finger across the bridge of his nose. His lips curled into a smile and he laughed softly to himself.

"You know, when I saw Meredith frozen in agony after she was destroyed by the red lyrium, I felt glad. I looked on that horrific statue and I felt vindication. _That _was justice. That was - is - the true face of the Chantry and the Templars. Corrupted power so out of control that it destroys itself."

Cain balled his hands into fist again. "These chains are forever. These sins are forever."

Cain relaxed his hands again, defeated. He began to cry.

Anya wrapped her arms around him. She wanted to steal his pain. She wanted to steal his fear. She wanted to give him strength as Po had given her ten years ago. But she didn't know how to do that.

Or did she?

"I lied to you," Anya said. "When we first met.

"You asked if I knew your sisters. I knew them both." Cain lifted his head slightly. "Jessa was my best friend, even though she was older. That's how I knew about the tower at Calen's Roost. They told me about it. They knew they would never see it. So I wanted to go there, for them.

"Your sisters, both of them, they saved my life."

Cain looked at her, his eyes still wet with tears. "How?" was all he could ask.

"We were all having breakfast before our morning lessons. Your sisters always came down to eat with the apprentices. They were always so happy and they'd sneak the young kids cakes and cookies down from the mage's quarters upstairs. They'd ask us how our lessons were going and give us advice about how to cast some of the tougher spells. Everyone loved them. Jessa would always bring a sugar cookie just for me if I could show her the latest thing I was working on. She said she was training with the Enchanters and was hoping to become a mentor before long."

Anya remembered that part with such joy. She had hoped that someday Jessa would be her teacher. And not just for the cookies. She had looked over Anya with a motherly care. Anya couldn't even remember her real mother. The Templars took her away so young.

"Then the entire tower shook. Before long mages and Templars came running down the stairs bloody and beaten. Knight Commander Greagoir charged ahead with some of the others behind him. They closed the gates and locked us in without telling us what was going on. Some of the survivors told us what was happening. Enchanter Wynne, Niall and some of the others were planning to try to fight their way up to get to the First Enchanter.

"Niall and some of the other Enchanters went up while Wynne sent the apprentices back to their beds. Niall didn't return and demons began pouring down to the apprentice quarters. Wynne and the other older mages went to fight them off, to protect all of the children. They told us to stay but I didn't listen. I didn't want to leave your sisters and I thought I could help.

"I thought they went into the library so I ran there. They weren't there, but there was a fiery rage demon that was feasting one of the dead mages. It saw me and I tried to fight it. I don't know what I was thinking. I only knew a couple training spells. Your sisters came in just as the demon was about to attack me.

"Jessa knocked me out of the way just as the demon was about to pounce. It burned her leg so badly, right down to the bone. She fell on the ground screaming as Jenna began throwing ice all over the library. I ran to try to help Jessa but she just kept screaming 'Run away! Run away Anya! Get out of here!'"

Anya realized tears were now streaming down her face as she told the story, but she couldn't stop. The words just kept falling out.

"She was hurt so badly but she just kept yelling and pleading for me to run away. Jenna was doing whatever she could to keep the demon back, but it was so strong. Every time she would push it back with a blast of cold, it would push twice as hard.

"The demon wanted Jessa because it knew she couldn't run. But Jenna was standing over her as Jessa tried to crawl away. She refused to give a single step, even as the demon grabbed her with its fiery claws. She started screaming as the demon was burning her, swelling with flames and rage.

"I finally turned and ran back to the quarters and hid under my bed, just like they told me to do."

Anya squeezed Cain again in her arms.

"They might have survived if I wasn't so stupid," she said, her voice cracking. "So many people died, but they might have lived. They could have gotten behind the barrier with Wynne and the others."

She had never forgiven herself.

She had always felt responsible. When Cain had said he was a Wygard when they met in the ruins of Calen's Roost, she had almost burst into tears and the memory came flooding back.

"They gave their lives to protect me, so I owe it to them to give my life to protect you, Cain. Whatever it takes, I have to help you, for Jessa and Jenna. There's nothing I've ever had to do more."

She used the same words he had said earlier that night. It was deliberate. She knew how he meant it when he said it. She meant it the same way.

Cain squeezed her back. "Thank you," he said.

It felt good. Anya had never told that story to anyone before. Not the Templars. Not the Seeker who had come to the tower to investigate the aftermath. Not anyone.

"I told you before, Cain. I won't let you destroy yourself. Whatever it takes, I will help you through this," she said.

Cain's fingers brushed up her neck and across her cheek, circling back into her hair. He pushed her hair back over her ear and lightly cupped the back of her head.

He kissed her.

It was lightly, his lips made contact for just a second before he pulled away, perhaps second guessing his actions.

She pursued. She wrapped her arms around his back and pulled herself closer, locking into him again. Cain's arms wrapped around her and squeezed, the strength of his arms pressing their bodies into one another. As he embraced her, their lips crossing against one another, Anya felt fire rush through her she had not expected.

It was the rush of pain and doubt, as she pulled them out of Cain and into herself. She would steal them anyway and lock them deep inside of her.

She didn't know what she was doing, but she did not fear what might happen.

Anya never feared.


	16. Chapter 16

**Sixteen**

The quartermaster had provided a new full set, newly etched with his name at the gauntlet.

He had placed the regalia on his bed and stared at it for a long time, as if it filled with bees or rashvine.

Cain groaned loudly in disapproval before picking up the first item.

As he slipped back into the plate, the long, decorative fauld, the heavy gauntlets and armored boots, he was disgusted with himself at how familiar it all felt. He shifted padding, adjusted belts and buckles, strapped his boots and tested the mobility of his arms and legs.

At the wrist, etched in a thin script. _Cain Wygard._

It was his armor. Again. Unfortunately.

The clink and clank of metal on metal, the weight and the touch of the padding seemed so familiar as he descended the steps of Skyhold. The mages in the yard threw him sidelong glances, wary, untrusting. In that armor, he was just another Templar. He was the embodiment of every wrong the Chantry had done to them their entire life.

He wanted to explain, but it would have been wasted time. The rebel mages had likely all made up their mind about Templars long ago. He wouldn't change anything about that.

* * *

"I hope you don't mind the new sword," Cullen said as the Commander rolled his shoulders. He had offered to spar with Cain in the yard, to help re-acclimate him to the armor.

"You've got a good smith," Cain said, lifting Duty over his shoulder. He held it as he lifted some of the training swords in his other hand to compare their weight. He would have preferred to test the new blade itself, but they weren't using live steel.

Several of the soldiers had gathered around - at a respectable number of paces away to not catch attention - in the training yard in the bailey to watch. Seeker Pentaghast leaned casually against the wall of the forge.

Her eyes were fixed on Cullen, he noticed. But why?

"Now take it easy on me. I haven't worn this damned armor in months and this sword is new," Cain said.

Several of the Inquisitor's inner circle had gathered around too. The elf, Sera, sat on the roof of the Herald's Rest. Madam de Fer lounged casually on her balcony, sipping red wine and leafing through a tome, attempting to look disinterested. The Iron Bull was right at the edge of the ring with a mug in his hand. They were there to watch the Commander in action, of course.

But Anya and Dominic were close by. Lina had left before dawn with Harper. The Arcanist Dagna had come up from the Undercroft to spectate, too.

"Making excuses already, Cain?" the Commander said with a smirk.

"I don't know if I can fight you. I can't take my eyes off your dazzling mane there," Cain said, pointing to the black fur that wrapped around the collar of the Commander's armor.

The others chuckled, quietly, as not to catch the Commander's ire. Iron Bull guffawed again, slapping his lieutenant on the back.

"You know, if you win, you'll have to take over as general of our army," Cullen said. "I will gladly resign those headaches to you."

"I've seen some of the recruits down in the camp. I think calling it an army is a stretch," Cain joked.

"Weren't you training them?"

"Those couple dozen men are the only useful ones down there."

Cullen was the typical Templar, longsword and shield. Cain hated having to deal with shields. Cain lifted another one of the training blades they had offered him, that appeared to have a similar weight to Duty. He handed his good sword to Dagna for safekeeping.

"Did we ever get a chance to fight in Kirkwall?" Cullen asked, not remembering.

"Can't say we did. You were always following the Knight Commander around like a puppy."

"Ugh, don't remind me." Cullen had selected his own training blade, tapping it against the face of his shield.

Cain gave a twirl of his sword. The pauldrons on his armor were stiff and he didn't have the same flexibility as in his own armor.

"Come on already!" Iron Bull shouted, growing impatient.

"Yeah, knock Commander Big Britches right in his overstuffed cod!" the elf added from the roof.

Cain laughed.

"I still question the company kept by our Inquisitor," Cullen said to Cain, shaking his head. "Ready, Knight-Sergeant Wygard?"

Cain smiled, shook his head and pointed at Cullen, shaking his finger. "That's low, Commander. You're going to take that one back."

"Try me."

Cain launched. The spectators cheered.

He pressed forward hard, throwing hard blows that the Commander checked off in sequence with his sword and shield. His feet were still good, shuffling and backing carefully as he defended.

Cullen slashed low and left, Cain wrenching his sword down but not quite fast enough as the training sword glanced off his hip. A mixture of hoots, hollars, and boos cascaded over the yard as the clink of metal on metal rang out.

"That's cheap," Cain said as he backed off and checked the new ding the dulled blade left on the armor. "You know this shitty armor doesn't bend well."

"Of course," Cullen gloated. "I wore that longer than you."

Cain answered with a quick slash at Cullen's head, causing the Commander to awkwardly duck under it. The crowd laughed.

Cullen shook his sword at Cain as he circled around to the opposite side of the ring, keeping a few paces distance between them. A big smile crossed his face. He was sure Cullen didn't smile like that often, but he was in his element here and clearly enjoying himself. "I don't know how they let you get away with shaking that thing around. So crude."

"Only a select few men are blessed with big swords. Don't be jealous," Cain said with a smirk.

Iron Bull laughed again, standing and thrusting his hips into the air lewdly. "Fucking right, kid! Fucking right!"

Cullen came on the attack. The shorter blade was quicker as the Commander cut out and in, but Cain checked them aside. The shield came around Cain's right side and he caught that on his blade. He gave a quick kick toward Cullen's knee. The Commander slid back and Cain spun right, swinging the larger sword around in an arc.

That same strike had caught Dominic in the back before, but Cullen lurched forward, the blade whooshing air just inches from his connecting with his back. Oohs and aahs. Laughs. Cullen turned, straightened up confidently after the near miss. He stalked around the circle again, dropping his sword and his shield low at his hips.

"Were you always this slow?" Cullen taunted.

"You're the one sweating," Cain noted, watching as a bead of sweat rolled down the Commander's forehead. Cain threw a half-hearted slash, just to keep Cullen at distance. He stepped in and returned an equally lazy one, his longsword slashing far shorter into empty air.

Cain lifted his sword over his head, annoyed at how the thick shoulder pieces bent stiffly as he pulled his arms above his head. He opened his stance.

Cullen took the bait. He lunged in. Cain slipped right, throwing a hard slash down to knock the sword down toward the ground. Cullen's shield followed. Cain rolled his shoulder, letting it make contact.

As the shield hit, Cain reached inside himself and drew up some of his Templar power, pushing it off his body in a quick flash of light. It didn't nullify or cleanse magic - not that it would have had any effect on Cullen anyhow - but was a great tool for staggering any type of enemy.

Cullen twitched, caught off guard by the flash. Cain shoved his shoulder into the shield to toss the Commander back and turned, whipping the sword around. The dulled blade clanged into the right shoulder of the Commander as he tried to raise his blade in defense but couldn't find the right angle. Cheers and applause.

Cullen stumbled backward, blinking his eyes and shaking his head as he ducked behind his shield.

"Don't need a shield when you've got the power," Cain said, turning his head and spitting into the grass. "You know, _some _Templars are more than soldiers with - what was it - overstuffed cods?"

The elf on the roof gave a throaty laugh and nodded enthusiastically, flipping profane hand gestures at Cullen.

"And here I thought you were above those kind of tricks," Cullen said as his vision returned.

"Oh come now, the Chantry wouldn't teach 'tricks.' They are 'gifts,' or 'feats,' or 'talents,'" Cain mocked.

They pushed each other around the ring for about another ten minutes before calling the match.

The Commander had definitely gotten the better of him after his little flash stunt.

It hadn't been terribly long since the last time he donned the Templar regalia, but he realized how quickly he had acclimated to a less restrictive armor. He was slow and rigid in the plate and it was heavier than he remembered after he got into the thick of fighting, too. He'd have some work to do.

Cullen had to return to his duties after the match. Cain removed the armor and washed up, grabbed a quick lunch with the others and they prepared to set out in the early afternoon.

As they approached the main gate, Cullen met them there again. Dominic was struggling to carry the weighty Templar armor, even though they had given him a lighter set worn by newly initiated Templars. Cain's had meatier pauldrons and accents of a Knight-Sergeant.

Anya hardly looked like herself.

The new robe they had fashioned her was black, a leather bustier, cut at her midriff with a gold belt, and black silk that flowed long down to her feet. Above her bust, the dress was black floral lace. Her hair was tied back in an intricate bun of twists and pinned with two golden pins shaped like wings that fanned back off her hair.

Black feathers dangled off thin gold chains at her ears. Her fingers were ringed with gold and gems. She wore a short coat of fur with a feathered collar around it. Behind her, gold wrapped around the pale blue crystal at the top of the staff. Smaller feathers dangled just off the head. The grip was wrapped in gold wire, winding down to a bladed hook that curved like a talon, in gold.

Her eyes were painted in dark, smoky tones, her lips shining with a rose gold color, a slight pinkish hue on her cheeks.

She was stunning. Cain must have been staring.

"Madam de Fer said I would be fit for the Orlesian court," Anya said. "Something along the lines of 'Darling, you'd turn heads everywhere between here and Churneau.'"

"I have to agree," Cain said. He remembered the night before, her lips upon his, the feel of her body close to him.

He was at his weakest, and she was there.

"Thankfully they gave me some more comfortable and reasonable outfits for the road," Anya said. "It's not really appropriate for hiking dusty trails."

Sister Nightingale was descending the steps from the walls. "As I look at the three of you, I'm more and more convinced that this plan will succeed," she said.

"Let's hope you're right," Cullen agreed.

"If there is any major trouble, have Anya send word via the crystal," Leliana said. "Harper has one shard, but Arcanist Dagna has another. With enough power, she should be able to pick up any message no matter where you are in Orlais."

Anya nodded.

"I'll begin moving troops in a few days, so they'll be on your heels," Cullen said. "We won't be able to take too many people that deep around Mont-de-glace, but I'll do what I can. If the army is too large, it may be several weeks before we could marshal enough forces to attack Penitence. So stay safe."

"We'll do what we can," Cain said.

"Good luck, Cain," the Commander said.

Cain nodded.

"Hopefully we'll see you soon. Try not to break open the sky again while we're gone."


	17. Chapter 17

**Seventeen**

The Imperial Highway would have been the faster route, but cutting through the Dales would be safer.

Supposedly. It was supposed to be safer. It hadn't been thus far.

The forces of Empress Celene and Grand Duke Gaspard had ripped up east so badly, Cain was second-guessing whether attempting to pass battalions of soldiers, deserters and bandits on the highway might not have been the easier route.

The rumors of peace talks being planned at the Winter Palace had stopped some of the fighting, but they still occasionally found themselves traveling miles out of the way to avoid battles raging on the plains.

They had skirmished a few times with the so-called Freeman of the Dales, a group of deserters and upstarts who thought that they might claim the region for their own, by strength. Anya had left a pile of charred bodies the first time a group of Freeman attempted to stop them. Cain had cut down two the next time before the other three decided better of the attempt to harry them.

Many of the small villages had been burned out or plundered. The survivors peered cautiously from their half-destroyed homes at anyone who passed. They had been able to stay a few places overnight safely where the Orlesians hadn't totally forgotten hospitality - or the value of coin - but had to move on from several more where the locals were so distrustful of anyone wearing a blade that they were giving no refuge.

Bodies littered the plains. Crows and buzzards circled overhead, marking the biggest of the battlefields, but there were dead everywhere from smaller battles, demons and opportunists preying on people fleeing the fighting.

The sites reminded Cain of Kirkwall, after the explosion at the Chantry. Dead mages and Templars. Dead civilians from the demons that poured into the streets as mages threw out everything the Chantry had preached against in one frenzied orgy of power and the dream of liberation.

It was disgusting.

But there were also fleeting moments of beauty in the land that was draped in history and the blood that the stories were written in.

One day, in the distance, they had seen the sails of a Dalish aravel gliding across the plains, led by a small team of snow-white halla. They had stopped and watched quietly in awe as the elves passed, making sure to keep their distance, of course.

The Inquisition had a single camp established on the Exalted Plains, their target for the end of today's trip. Commander Cullen was sending additional forces to the plains to try to help stabilize the area. They caught word that the Inquisitor was traveling further west to track down the Wardens, but had plans to try to return to the Dales before the peace talks at the Winter Palace. It was an ambitious schedule.

The reinforcements were being led by First Enchanter Vivienne. Between her reputation of being a brutal player of the Game and her unflagging support of the Chantry, Cain was hoping to be well out of the area before she arrived.

He felt bad for the Freemen who would meet her in battle.

The land had turned more hilly and rocky in the past day, large croppings of stone rising out of the ground, covered by tall grass and trees stretching out toward the sun. The west road toward where the Inquisition was camped was squeezed between two cliffs, but in the distance, Cain could see the flapping banners, tents, cookfires and soldiers milling around, waiting for reinforcements.

His head throbbed, but overall he was feeling well. He felt fatigued - more than just from the daily marching.

He was again slowly trying to pull away from the vials of lyrium tucked carefully into Anya's pack.

He didn't trust himself with it.

He had tried to pull away too hard, too fast, the first time after the mine. Cain has spoken with Anya at length about how he had felt prior as he was slowly taking himself away from it. She had agreed that a slow and calculated approach might be best.

She apologized for asking him to cut off hard before.

He apologized, again, for attacking her. If not for that, he might have just continued as he had.

They kissed again the following morning.

Anya had stayed with him all that night. They had fallen asleep together, her head resting on his chest, his arm wrapped around her shoulder, her hand resting gently on his stomach.

His head was swimming from all the lyrium. At times he wasn't sure whether he was awake or sleeping and his stomach twisted and turned, alternating between feeling of nausea and fullness.

When Cain awoke the next morning, he just felt ill. There was disappointment, shame, loathing. But as Anya stirred in the bed next to him, there was also happiness and peace. In the Circle, such fraternization would have been harshly punished. He had seen that before, firsthand.

But so much had changed within one short year. A mage and a Templar could speak without fear, lie in the same bed, hold one another at their weakest.

It was a change for the better. He hoped when the world was put back together, these good changes would not go away.

For now, Cain couldn't wait to get to camp to take off his damned Templar armor for the night.

They approached the edge of the camp, Cain flashing a hand signal to indicate they were friendly. They weren't wearing Inquisition colors, but the guards settled. They were met at the edge of camp by a mabari, blue painted stripes twisting over his brown fur. His owner followed, a pair of waraxes hanging at his hip.

"You must be Sergeant Wygard," the man said. " We received word you were coming. I'm Chykk. This is Snort. Welcome."

He was an Ash Warrior, his face and arms painted in the same blue kaddis as the dog. He was Ferelden, but his features also belied something wilder. Perhaps one of his parents were Chasind? If not, he was definitely from somewhere in the south. Somewhere the Blight had hit hardest ten years back.

The Ash Warriors only served causes they found just, which boded well for the work being done here by the Inquisition, he thought. But beyond that, Cain suspected this warrior enjoying sicking his mabari on Orlesians at any opportunity he could get. The dog wore three partially chewed yellow feathers on his collar. Cain assumed the chevaliers didn't give their plumes up willingly.

The Inquisition attracted all kinds, indeed, Cain thought.

"Oh, what I would do for my own mabari," Dominic said, eyeing up Snort. The dog was pure muscle from nose to tail. He had a fair amount of patches where the fur no longer grew, thin scars marking the flesh underneath. The dog had gray showing around his muzzle.

Snort sauntered up right next to Dominic, his stubby tail wagging wildly. The dog raised his shoulders up to proudly trot next to the young man. "Don't scratch his ass or you'll find him curled up in bed with your tonight," Chykk warned as he led them in.

There were some wounded in the camp, about two dozen soldiers in total. If the Orlesians wanted to run them out of the valley, they would have no trouble doing it.

"No trouble with the Orlesians?" Cain asked.

"They've packed it in recently. All anyone is talking about is some gathering at the Winter Palace. They're all taking a break from the bloodletting. Would be all fine and good except for the Freemen and these damnable shamblers," Chykk explained. Chykk, himself, had a thigh that was wrapped in bandages, Cain noticed.

"Walking corpses?" Anya asked.

"They do a damn bit more than just walk," Chykk said. "I've lost five men already to attacks. They're coming from some of the forts, but we can't get close enough to tell why and I don't have enough men here anywhere. Damn mabari likes chewing 'em up though. Right, boy?" Snort gave two growly barks. "Fucking dog will eat anything, I swear."

"Could be from the demons," Anya said. There had been the greenish glow of fade rifts scattered across the plains. "Or mages."

"Haven't seen any mages. Some demons, yes. They're mostly prowling the ruins of the towns farther north, though, doing all kinds of hellish shit up there." Snort gave three quick barks and a growl. "Ah right. There are some rifts down on the water too. We see the occasional pack to the south too. Small ones, nothing we can't handle here, for the most part."

Chykk offered them a tent in the middle of the camp. "This one's free. Old owners don't need it any more," he said, running his thumb across his throat. "Plains are a shit mess, but we've actual got a good supply line, between what we get in from Skyhold and what we can scavenge out of the towns and the busted up merchant carts all over. So eat up, while you've got it. I'll get some of the boys to scout south and make sure the road is clear for tomorrow."

That evening, they had meat.

Since Lina had departed, getting fresh game was proving to be much harder than anticipated. Cain hadn't brought a bow - not like he was much of a shot anyway - and Anya wasn't much of a hunter, Her magic worked just as well as any arrow. Subtlety wasn't exactly her strong point, though, so most prey scampered off as she clomped through the brush.

The snoufleur chops were a bit fatty, but Dominic had managed to rifle through some of the available herbs and spices on hand and mixed up a decent rub that had charred black as it cooked. The kid might still need work with a sword, but he had a good sense of taste, Cain thought.

Snort enthusiastically chewed the bones, cracking them open and gnawing and licking the marrow he could get to inside. As warned, the dog wouldn't leave Dominic's side. Dominic was happy to oblige by tossing the mabari chunky of jiggly fat he tore off his chops.

"There was an old mabari that used to come around the village all the time," Dominic said. "I never was able to tell if he was a wild dog or if he had once been someone's pet and been long separated."

"Is this the one that stole your dinner roll and ran off into the woods?" Anya asked, remembering the embarrassing story Dominic's mother had shared their one night in Bricker's Break. Cain snorted and chuckled.

Dominic smiled too. "He's the one. I was hoping you guys would forget about that." He tossed another glob of fat to Snort. "I called him Blackie. He had a dark coat, with a few brown stripes running just over his shoulders. He'd sometimes come into town and just hang around for the day. I always tried to get him to follow me home, but I guess he didn't want to be anyone's dog."

Snort turned his head to the side as he listened, then began panting. "I've always heard you can't choose a mabari. They have to choose you," Cain said.

"Yeah, maybe some day," Dominic sighed, then rubbed Snort's head. "Did they have any mabari at the Circle Tower, Anya?"

She had a mouth full of food, a drop of grease running out of the corner of her mouth. She shook her head as she wiped with the back of her hand and swallowed. "No pets allowed in the Circle Tower. There were a few cats that would get in every now and then. Some birds that would fly into the windows on the upper levels. Mice, occasionally. The Templars did a pretty good job of keeping us from having anything fun," she said, shooting a glance at Cain.

"There was one apprentice who tried to sneak a cat into the Gallows," Cain said. "Except he tried to smuggle it in under his shirt. The thing was squirming all over the place and clawing the kid up until he dropped it out of the bottom of his shirt right in the intake. He was so scared we were going to report it to the Knight Commander. But we were all laughing so hard, we promised not to say anything."

Cain laughed again at the memory. There had been a few good times in the Order. But most of those had been while he was a recruit, spending his days in the barracks with the other trainees and initiates. Once he had taken his full vows, the Knight Commander put him to work. That had been significantly less enjoyable.

Derrik had joined because he believed the stories about the mage girls being so cooped up that they basically threw themselves at any Templar. He was caught in the library with one of the apprentices in a state of undress. Knight Commander Meredith had him flogged so badly he left the Order as soon as he healed. The girl was made Tranquil.

Celia was a head shorter than the men, but she could take her cups just as well and hit nearly as hard with a sword. She had shaved her golden hair on either side of her head, leaving just one long plume down the center that ran to the middle of her back. She was caught sneaking an extra dose of lyrium one day from the storeroom on orders from one of the senior Templars. The Knight Commander expelled her from the Order. Cain saw her months later begging in the gutter in Darktown, weak and gaunt from lyrium withdrawal.

Ahlen was the best fighter. He had come from minor nobility in Nevarra but had had years of formal training at a castle with a real battlemaster. He likely could have taken the Knight Commander in single combat if she would have ever given into such revery. He was holding vigil in the Chantry that day when the rebellion started. They never found even a single piece of his body.

And Orin joined because his father had served more than thirty years as a Templar. He was a whiz when it came to sleight of hand and was also the best Wicked Grace player in the barracks. People suspected the two skills were related but couldn't prove it. His face was melted into an unrecognizable mess of burns after a mage bathed him in fire during the rebellion.

The Templars were disposable. For every friend who perished, two more arrived at the Gallows competing for the chance to don the armor. Cain knew.

He had been one of them, once.

* * *

Anya was dreaming.

She recognized the subtle buzz of the Fade around her. The landscape looked like Calen's Roost. She was sitting atop the broken tower again. She could see the glow of wisps bobbing gently between the trees in the distance. They created this playground for her.

In the center of the rounded lake, there stood a Templar, with his back to her.

Cain.

Anya stepped carefully stepped down the broken stairs of the tower, looking around her for any signs of danger. Dreams were typically benign, but she could never be sure what might be lurking in the shadows.

At the bottom of the stairs where there should only have been tall grass, there was instead a finely woven carpet. It twisted and swerved through the ruined walls, stretching toward the edge of the water. She stepped on it, feeling the gentle resistant of the fibers squishing under her feet.

She smelled the air, ripe with rain and pollen. The sun shone through treetops, casting dappled shadows all around. Somewhere behind the illusion, the Black City was looming, she knew.

"Cain," she called out to the figure standing on the water.

The Templar turned his head and smiled.

He began walking toward her, his steps casting ripples as he crossed the surface of the water. Each step caused red to cascade out around his feet, dark blood diffusing through the water under his feet. He did not look down, his head straight ahead, eyes boring into her. Each step flooded more blood underfoot.

The entire lake ran red, the water changing to crimson and growing thicker. The grass and trees began to wither and rot before her eyes, the sun faded, sapping the land of color as everything faded to grey before her except for the vivid sanguine pool shining in color.

He was nearing the shore, but as he took his next step, the surface of the water gave under his foot and he stumbled, splashing into the blood. He tried to take another step but fell deeper, slipping under the surface of bloody pond, his hands thrashing above the surface of the lake as he slipped further underneath.

"Cain!" Anya screamed and ran forward. But as she neared one step closer to the lake, the bloody water riled and crashed up into the air. The blood flew upward in a solid wave, a violent pillar shooting high into the sky toward the weak sun fading in the distance.

The pond was empty, nothing but a pure-white skeleton left in the black and red mud where Cain had slipped under the surface.

"Are you frightened?"

The whisper startled Anya and she spun around, pulling her arms as if she were holding her staff, although she was unarmed.

Before her, stood Po.

She should have felt fear, she knew. These images were not right. She hadn't seen Po since that day. Now he was here. She could feel the vibrations of the Fade growing stronger, something felt tense and angry in the air. But still, she felt numb.

"No," she answered, not daring to give more. This wasn't Po. Its form was too defined to be a wisp. She doubted a spirit would create this image.

"Good," Po said and smiled. "Don't worry. I'll always be with you, Anya."

Those were the same words he spoke so long ago, she recognized.

A crack of thunder split the Fade, deafening loud, followed by a white flash. She blinked. When she opened her eyes Po was gone.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. The sky broke, large, red drops of blood falling from the sky as rain. As they hit the ground, they smoked and burned like fire.

She snapped awake.

Thunder cracked. She could hear rain pattering on the outside of the tent. Cain and Dominic were asleep.

She grabbed her staff, touching her forehead and breathing slowly. She dreamt often, but not nearly so vivid and never so dark. What had happened?

Most people would wake up panting and dripping in sweat from the nightmare. She felt nothing like that.

But she did feel the strange vibrations of the Fade here too. She had felt them when they wandered within distance of a Fade rift, but it hadn't sounded like there were any that close to camp.

Anya lifted back the flap of the tent. The rain was falling heavily and the thick clouds obscured the moon and stars. The darkness choked the light from the campfires. Visibility was low. She couldn't see.

She closed her eyes and touched the Fade, to feel for mana.

It was close. The power was right on the edge of the Veil. It wasn't usually that close.

Something was wrong.

She ducked her head back in and shook both Cain and Dominic. Cain snapped awake in an instant. Dominic groggily lifted from his pillow.

"Wake up," she said. "Something's not right."

"What?" Cain asked.

Before she could answer, a woman's scream pierced the night air.

A shrill, shrieking howl followed shortly after.


	18. Chapter 18

**Eighteen**

Corpses swarmed the camp.

Before Cain could even get out of the tent, one of the walking dead was raking through the canvas wall.

All of the soldiers were roused from their sleep - horns blowing, shouting, screaming.

"Where the fuck are my sentries!" Chykk shouted in the center of the camp, driving his axe into the skull of one corpse and kicking it into a heap. Snort was at his side, the dog's fangs bared as he growled, the hair at his haunches sticking up. "Help whoever you can, go!" he shouted to the dog.

Dominic and Anya were at Cain's side as he joined the Lieutenant near the blazing brazier in the center of the site. "It's a mage," Anya said to Chykk.

Cain could feel it too. There was a vibration, fluctuations in the ether that he knew were a mage pulling power from the Fade and shaping it to his own uses.

"Maker's shit, of course it's a fucking mage," Chykk said. He looked at Cain.

Cain understood. Mage problem? Send a Templar. He nodded.

"Find him. I'll do what I can here," Chykk said and bolted after his dog.

The attack was coming from the north, but the rain was coming down so thick Cain couldn't see. The rain pinged off of the bulky Templar armor. He gripped Duty in his hand, making sure the blade wouldn't slip.

The Inquisition soldiers were holding their own for now, although caught unaware, but more corpses were pouring into camp. They'd quickly be overrun.

"The corpses are slow but strong, Dominic," he advised. "Keep your guard up and strike hard when there's an opening."

"Got it," Dominic said, banging his sword against the front of his shield.

They jogged up the muddy road, engaging with the corpses almost immediately. Dominic charged ahead behind his shield, slamming into one of the corpses, knocking it back and hit it so hard with his sword he sheared off its bony arm in a fluid strike. He followed, driving the blade deep into its gut and bashing it off the sword with his shield. He stepped over and forward with the confidence of a veteran.

Something had changed in him since Bricker's Break. The young man hit twice as hard while training, his eyes were harder and focused and he was picking up his steps faster. The simple attacks that Cain had once thrown at him no longer connected. He fought with a new vigor.

The corpses were no trouble for Cain. They shambled, moving so slowly that he bobbed between them, easily driving Duty in between their defenses. He always moved forward, cutting rotting flesh and slashing exposed bones. Others surged ahead, but Cain ignored them. The other soldiers would need to fend for themselves.

The rain, the lightning - both in the background and the bolts that Anya threw past his flanks - and the rhythm of battle, they all felt right. This was easy, so natural, that Cain felt as if his body moved without thought. The clunky Templar armor was still too rigid, but he could eye each corpse, spotting weaknesses in an instant and driving his sword into them.

He swung, killed, and stepped forward. His body was on alert, but beneath that, the sensastions felt like fun.

He could see paleish blue-green light ahead, faint lights dancing in the darkness of the storm. A flash of lightning and he could see for an instant, the mage, his arms twirling, pulling spirits into the pile of corpses littering the field before the wooden fort.

The mage saw him, too.

Cain charged forward, he could feel Anya in step behind him. Then she dropped away, stopping dead in her tracks.

She let out a cry, her staff flew out of her hands and clanged forward into the dirt. Her legs and arms bent awkwardly and her body twisted as if she was suddenly suspended upon strings. She froze, her muscles paralyzed.

"Stop where you are, Templar!" the mage's voice cut through the darkness. It was Tevinter, clearly. "Or I'll rip her apart."

Cain was close enough to see the mage now. His staff was outstretched toward Anya, glowing with a faint red light at the head of the staff. In the light, he could see red blood running down the sleeve of the man's white coat, ornamented with gold.

He held his left hand out, palm up. There was a deep slash across his hand, blood dripping down from the wound.

"Venatori, I take it," Cain said, lowering Duty to his side, but not loosening his grip on the sword.

"Our reputation precedes us," the mage said with a smile. "And you're Inquisition. Quite vexing. The Elder One is annoyed."

"Is that so?" Cain said. He didn't know where Dominic was. The young man had been lost somewhere back, tangling with the corpses. "First time I've come across your kind."

Cain looked over his shoulder at Anya. She was still frozen in that same awkward position. The blood mage had deftly gained control of her blood. He gripped it from within her and could twist and move her in any way he wanted.

He had seen it once before, tracking an apostate deep into the Vimmark Mountains.

When they had the mage cornered, he had slashed himself deep and drawn upon blood magic. It happened so fast. Recruit Jace hadn't been initiated yet. He had no powers. He had no way to defend himself.

The apostate grabbed the young man's blood and twisted him around, ripping all of his limbs out of the joints and spinning his hips around until his spine snapped under the pressure. The bright-eyed young man collapsed in a pile before Ser Karras could gut the blood mage.

"Drop that sword, and step back," the Venatori said. He wore a masked helm, horned, obscuring his face. But his words rang loudly through the storm.

"What guarantee do I have that you won't hurt her or attack me as soon as I disarm?" Cain said.

"None. But you don't have a choice, Templar," the Venatori mage said.

Anya's left arm lifted above her head as the mage lifted his staff slightly, while her right leg bent at the knee. Anya grunted as her body pulled against her will. She grimaced in pain.

Duty clanged as it hit the ground.

The Venatori laughed. "That's good. Now, you'll take this message back. The Elder One is coming. He will sweep the plains of this so-called Inquisitor and crush your pathetic resistance. He will remake this world and we will be gods."

A dark blur blinked in Cain's peripheral vision. "That sounds wonderful. But I suppose you won't live to see it."

The Venatori laughed louder. "And how is that? You are unarmed. I will rip your little bitch apart if you so much as move toward that sword." The blood on his palm began to glow. "I think I might destroy you with one spell, right now, just to be sure. So how is it that you will kill me?"

Cain smiled. "Because you didn't see the dog coming around your flank."

Snort was already in the air as he said it. The muscled mabari pounced on the Venatori's back, driving him into the dirt. Cain flared his anti-magic, cutting the hold of blood magic around Anya. She crumpled to the ground, suddenly in control of herself again.

He stooped and grabbed Duty in one fluid motion at the mabari savaged the mage's shoulder. Cain slid down on the ground, grabbing the other shoulder with his hand. "Heel!" he shouted to the dog as flipped the mage over onto his back, slamming his body down against the mud, knocking the wind out of the mage's lungs.

Cain ripped the mask off the man's head, revealing his face. He had Tevinter features, chiseled bones in his face, ice blue eyes, a meticulously trimmed mustache above his lip. He was highborn, young, but clearly from an established family. He would be a magister someday.

Cain could feel the mage trying to pull mana in a frenzied, desperate attempt and Cain pulsed the field off of himself, choking the connection to the Fade. The mage's eyes were fearful. Perhaps in Tevinter he had never felt the grip of anti-magic wrapping around his throat before.

Cain punched him across the jaw with his left hand, the mailed fist immediately splattering blood out of the mage's mouth as the punch drove through. Before the mage could struggle any more, Cain had the knife out of his belt and resting at the mage's throat.

"Make a single move and I'll cut your fucking throat," Cain threatened, pressing the blade down. Blood seeped through the mage's lips. He kept his anti-magic field up, just to make sure the kid mage wouldn't try anything stupid. The boy's body was as still as a corpse.

It was only then that Cain realized the mage was crying.

"My mouth," he whined, sniffling, as tears rolled out of the corners of his eyes down across his temples. He whimpered.

"The corpses!" Cain demanded.

The mage sniffled again. "I lost my hold on them. Please, please don't kill me. My father, he'll pay."

"What are the Venatori doing here?" Cain ignored, grabbing the collar of the mage's robe and thumping him down against the ground again. That only succeeded in making him cry harder.

"Please, I don't want to die. I shouldn't even be here."

"What are the Venatori doing here!" Cain asked again.

Anya had regained herself and Cain could feel her approaching behind him. He quelled his anti-magic to the rear, so not to affect Anya. He kept it close at his front though, although it was becoming clearer and clearer this kid wasn't going to do anything more than sob.

"My father is a magister and my mother too. They're wealthy. They'll pay ransom. Please. Please don't kill me. We can reach a bargain."

Cain wiggled the knife slightly at the mage's neck, eliciting a high pitched whine of fear. "I don't bargain with fucking blood mages!" he shouted, pushing his left hand down on the man's chest to pin him harder to the ground. He was losing his patience. "This is the last time I'm asking. What are the Venatori doing here?"

There was no answer. Just more sobbing. He might be scared, and young, and stupid, but his tongue was not loose.

Cain pressed and jerked, one quick motion, clean and quick.

Hot blood bubbled out of wound, the mage twitched once and fell still.

Cain wiped the blade on the mage's coat and slipped it back into the small sheath at his lower back. He stood.

"Why did you kill him?" Anya demanded. She sounded upset, Cain thought. As he turned, he saw that he was not mistaken. She was scowling, her eyes angry.

"Outside of the fact that he tried to kill both me and you with blood magic?" Cain asked. "He was ready to twist your to pieces back there."

"He was young. He had given up. You could have taken him prisoner. Ransomed him, like he wanted."

"And let him work his subtle blood magic and crawl inside my head?" Cain said, holding a finger to his temple. "Or yours?"

"There are worse things than being a blood mage," she said, disappointed, and lowered her arms.

"Is there?" Cain pursued, not ready to drop the topic. Maybe it was the battle rage still inside of him, but he wasn't about to let that be the last word. "I figured you of all people would know that. You were at the Circle Tower. You saw what blood magic did there."

"This is not the same."

"He was Venatori and he's working with the Elder One. They think this darkspawn will become a god and grant them dominance over this world."

"He could have changed. He could have put it all behind him. Given it up. He is not Uldred."

"Not yet, maybe. Uldred and his blood magic killed my sisters, or did you forget that too?" Cain was shouting. His voice had elevated and he hadn't realized it.

"Your sister Eliza was one of them. A blood mage," Anya said coldly. "Would you cut her throat too?"

Cain could feel the fury building in him and he tamped it down.

He remembered the report. It was brief, concise, written in the calculated hand of a Seeker whose script was steady and clean, as if he was familiar with atrocity. The Circle Tower was just another day.

_Casualty 62  
__Mage, Enchanter rank  
__Sex: Female  
__Name: Eliza Wygard  
__Age: 33 (from mage's records)  
__Location: Third floor. Mages quarters._

_Cause of death: Possession_

_Report: Adult female mage. Abomination. Details of possession unclear. Transformation suggests possession by rage demon. Corpse presents several blade wounds, suggesting death by Grey Warden Mahariel and company. Identification confirmed by First Enchanter Irving. Veil is weak near location of death. Non-battle wounds consistent with blood magic. Mage was likely summoning demons across the weakened Veil. Records indicate association with Libertarian fraternity. Information added to master list to Denerim ordering destruction of phylactery._

"After what she did, she would get the same kind of mercy as this Venatori."

Anya frowned and shook her head, her eyes cold and hateful. "That's horrid."

She reached down into her belt pouches and pulled out one of the small vials of lyrium and tossed it to him. He snatched it out of the air.

"It's time for your next dose."

She turned and walked back toward camp.

Cain turned his head and looked at the dead Venatori mage. He looked at the slashes on the mage's hands where he had cut himself to fuel his blood magic. Cain looked again at the dark blood oozing from the slash across his throat.

Cain pulled the cork from the vial of lyrium and drank.


	19. Chapter 19

**Nineteen**

The crowd in Val Firmin was downright filthy.

Lina unlaced her blouse a bit lower than she might normally and hiked up her skirt an extra inch. She and Harper threw flirty glances and blew kisses at each other and the men at the Golden Eagle Inn were pouring their purses on the table.

Lina had already sung The Lusty Lion three times and they were chanting for another encore. They chewed up the bawdy songs and wanted more. They liked Naughty Apprentice, they hooted for The Emperor's Jewels and cried laughing at Four Frisky Fereldan Hounds.

Harper's fingers hadn't stopped on her harp all night and Lina was pounding wine to keep her mouth from getting dry. Her head was spinning as she pranced atop the table, spinning her hips in circles and bending in every direction.

One drunken Orlesian had proposed to her, then two minutes later heaved his ale on the floor. A chevalier happened to mention that he was getting one last night of drinking before he and the others were heading to harry the Grand Duke's supply lines on the Deauvin Flats. And a lone Templar shared that he was heading to Mont-de-glace for an important assignment...

It was nearly closing time.

Lina pointed across the room at the young Templar, motioning with her index finger for him to come up. He looked shocked, but got up and came to the hearth where Lina and Harper were standing, sweat glistening off their skin.

"Thank you, thank you everyone," Lina said, addressing the die-hards who were spilling their cups every time they tried to bring them to their lips. "We will do one more song tonight, a special song for my friend here. What's your name, darling?"

"It's Geoffrey," he said unevenly. He swung his arm around Lina's back, planting his hand on her hips. His fingers trembled oddly. He wanted to try to slide his hand down, she could tell, but he was too timid.

Perfect.

"Geoffrey, darling," she said, placing her hand on his chest, running it slowly down his shirt and tracing his muscled frame underneath. "Tell me honestly. All those years with the Templars, did you ever get a chance to use that mighty sword of yours?" The patrons snickered. "Honestly now, Geoffrey, it's very important."

He blushed. The red color in his cheeks reminded her of how exasperated Dominic would get around her. The men laughed and hooted. "No, m'lady. The Templars are not allowed to do that kind of," he gulped. "Swordplay?"

Lina scrunched her lips and pushed her hip out to the side, leaning against him. "Oh that's too bad, too bad." She looked at the others. "What do you say boys, should I help make poor Geoffrey here a real man like all of you?"

They raised their glasses high, shouting approval and whistles and spilling beer all over themselves.

"I've got the perfect song then, to set the mood," Lina said, winking at Geoffrey. "We call this one One Wild Night."

* * *

The Templar had trembled all the way back upstairs to his room as Lina and Harper gently nudged him on. They shut the door and Harper turned the key, the lock making a loud, audible click. Lina stepped forward, dragging her fingertips across his back and around his arm as she stepped in front of him. She smiled as she watcher Harper slowly draw her knife from her belt.

In one swift motion, Harper had his arm locked behind his back and pressed the steel to his throat.

"Anything louder than a whisper and it will be your last word," Harper said harshly into his ear.

His eyes were full of fear. Lina smiled. "So sorry to do it like this, sweetie."

"You can take whatever gold I have, just please don't hurt me," he pleaded, squirming a bit to test Harper's grip on his arm.

Lina laughed. "Oh, sweetie, we don't want your gold," she said, pulling two chair outs. "But I do want you to sit down and chat with me and my friend here. Speaking honestly, just like before. If you do a good job and tell the truth, we let you go, pretty boy. Understand?"

The Templar nodded and slowly sat down in the chair Lina pushed behind him. As she sat, Harper slowly lifted the dagger, but kept her position right behind him, making sure to let him see she didn't put the knife away. In fact, she drew a second, just to remind him how serious of a situation he was in.

Lina spun her chair around, straddling it and resting her arms casually on the back. "So, sweetie. Tell me all about why you're going to Mont-de-glace."

* * *

It was nearing daybreak when Harper came back to the room, the lock clicking loudly again as she shut the door.

Lina had woken when the door opened and sat up under the covers, blinking her eyes. Harper tossed her satchel onto the small nightstand next to the bed. She ran a hand through her blonde hair, long and combed over to the right side. The left side of her head had been shaved close, her long locks pulled across the opposite side of her head. A single braid traced the border between her hairline, wrapping back around her ear, leaving nothing but the stubble across her temple. She wore a half-dozen golden rings in her left ear.

"I met with Butcher. He was not happy to be woken up so late at night," Harper said.

"They never are," Lina said.

"I gave him the intel and he'll send it back to Nightingale," Harper said. She peeled out of her dark clothing down to her small clothes, unclipped the earrings from her ear and then slipped under the covers into the bed with Lina.

"You're doing great work. Where did you learn that Lusty Lion song, anyway?"

Lina smiled. "There was an elven bard that once sang it in Halamshiral. She taught it to me. Was always one of my favorites. I used to hum it while working around the manor."

Lina couldn't remember the bard's name now, it had been years. She was tall and thin, brown hair cut close around her head. She had green eyes and wore a bright red lipstick. She sang so sweetly. Lina wasn't sure if she was a bard or a _bard_, but she was beautiful and talented.

And she was free.

The bard entertained rooms wherever she went. She wasn't confined to Halamshiral. She had sang at a dozen courts in Orlais. She was wealthy, or at least wealthy enough to dress well and stay in the fanciest inns. She wore gold and silver and jewels.

Lina had wanted to be her, to live that life. But at the end of the night, she had returned to the manor. It was all she could do.

Now, finally, she was living that life. Every day was excitement, danger, fun.

Harper stretched and pushed her head deeper into the pillows, letting out a groan of relief at finally being able to get some rest. "You're an absolute doll out there," she said. "Got all of them wrapped around your fingers."

"_And you, too," _Lina thought. Harper had confessed on their first night stopping at an inn that she preferred the company of women. She said it so matter-of-factly that Lina felt sad about it. She was concerned about whether Lina would feel comfortable sharing a bed with her in the inns. Harper had offered to sleep on the floor, if that was necessary.

It wasn't Lina's preference, but she had no qualms. One of the first lessons Nightingale's trainers had instilled in her was trust in the network. She trusted Harper.

But Lina wondered who had hurt Harper so badly that she felt she needed to disclose such a personal detail to another person who was little more than a stranger.

Lina suspected that Harper had fallen for her too. She watched the woman's eyes on her when she danced. She could feel Harper's skin flush when they touched during performances. That severe look she had in Skyhold had vanished. Now when they traveled on the road or spoke after hours in the inns, she smiled and laughed.

Lina hadn't had a friend since she was a child.

She smiled. "You're amazing on that harp. I never was able to learn to play anything. Without you, this doesn't work," Lina said.

Harper smiled too.

"I wanted to thank you," Lina blurted. "For helping to train me and all this other stuff."

"You're doing wonderfully," Harper said.

Lina smiled again. She could feel something swelling up inside of her. Maybe pride, or happiness or maybe even sadness.

"No, it's more than that. Thank you for needing me and appreciating me," Lina sniffled.

She must have started to cry, because Harper reached up and wiped one tear from her cheek.

Lina was supposed to be watching her little brother. She was twelve. He was just six years. Instead she saw the cake-maker pushing his cart on the way to the market and she was following him, trying to beg her way into a free lemon square. He didn't give it up though.

She turned back and came home. By the time she was back, her brother was gone. She ran around the alleys calling for him, figuring he had run off with some of the others boys or found a good hiding spot.

When she couldn't find him, she had to tell her parents. When they couldn't find him, they had to ask the others. Eventually they caught word that the Tevinter mage had been walking through the elven quarter in the morning. Another child said he saw the man dragging her brother away.

Her parents would hardly even look at her after that.

The next year, they sent Lina to the lord's manor. They said it was good life for her, that she'd be safe and well taken care of, better than they could do. She wondered now how much her parents had paid the lord to get rid of her. She had tried to visit her parents after her first month in training as a house servant.

When she came to the small hovel, they were gone and another poor elven family had already moved in. Her parents had picked up and left Halamshiral. They didn't tell her where they were going. They didn't tell anyone else where they were going. They were just, gone.

The other elves in the manor had all been raised in families of servants. She was a gutter elf and they made sure to remind her of it constantly. Especially Jevan. Oh how she had enjoyed gutting Jevan on her bloody exit from the city.

When she aged and came into her beauty, she had dabbled with men. But she always kept them at arm's length. A tease, a fling, a weekend romp, but never letting them get closer.

She didn't feel that way with Harper though. They shared stories on the road, shared information about their mission, and sang, danced and played all night long at the inns they rested at. She was comfortable.

"You don't need to thank me, Singer," Harper said. "You're so talented and so sweet. The pleasure has been all mine."

Lina smiled again. She could feel her eyes were wet now. "Even still, thank you."

Lina swallowed nervously. Harper's turquoise eyes looked at her softly, their faces mere inches apart as they shared the pillows.

"Have you ever been in love, Harper?" Lina asked. She wasn't sure why.

"Yes," Harper said with a smile. "You?"

Lina shook her head slightly on the pillow. "I don't think so," she said. The thought made her sad. "What happened?"

"Her parents found out," Harper said. "Worse, my parents found out. My father is a mask maker in Montsimmard. He's had commissions for some of Orlais' finest nobles, including one piece for the Empress herself. He didn't think it was appropriate for his daughter to be with other girls. He forbid us to see each other and kept me locked up in the house to make sure."

"What was she like?" Lina asked.

Harper smiled. "She was just like me. Her mother and father were dressmakers, very successful ones. Our parents often collaborated on outfits for the nobility. We were friends since we were young. We spent nearly every day together. And then one day we were lying in bed, just like this," she said, scooting an inch closer to Lina. "I think we both knew how we felt about each other but were both too afraid to say it. There was just a moment of silence and we just both looked at each other for a moment and then I leaned forward a bit and kissed her. And it just felt so, so right."

Lina scooted an inch closer on the pillow. "You could kiss me, if you wanted." She wondered if Harper wanted to kiss her. She wondered if she wanted Harper to kiss her.

Harper chuckled softly and smiled again. "You're sweet to offer," she said. "Is that what you really want?"

Lina considered it for a moment. "I don't know." It was honest, if it didn't sound completely stupid. She realized she sounded like all the stupid boys that fawned over her, now. "It just sounds, nice. What you had."

Harper leaned forward and planted a small kiss on Lina's cheek. As Harper plopped her head back down on the pillow, Lina knew she was blushing. "It doesn't happen overnight, you know," Harper said.

Lina nodded. "I know." She felt stupid now for even bringing it up.

Harper grabbed Lina's hand under the covers. "My real name is Leonie Mercier," she said.

Nightingale had stressed the importance of remaining anonymous, that agents should not know anything about one another in case they were captured. Ignorance was a shield. The simple names they were given were for their own protection. It was one of the first lessons the agents were taught.

Lina squeezed her hand back.

"I'm Lina, of Halamshiral."


	20. Chapter 20

**Twenty**

The stream was lukewarm, despite it flowing down from the mountains.

The water felt just right on Dominic's sweat-soaked skin. Cain had landed twelve blows on him today, but Dominic had hit his mentor four times.

He was getting better, but Cain had been distracted ever since the night on the Exalted Plains. Dominic had cut down seven corpses - or was it eight? - and gotten separated from the others. He had saved two other soldiers who didn't see one of the shambling dead Orlesian soldiers coming up behind them. He felt an excited surge run through himself as he saw the looks of surprise and appreciation on their faces.

He had never saved anyone before.

_A knight must fight as one with the army. The men and women who stand at his sides are as precious as his own arms and legs._

Cain and Anya had had some sort of disagreement, that much he had understood. They barely spoke the next day. They chatted briefly the day after that. By day three, things were more or less back to normal, but there was still a tension that Dominic could feel. Anya was praying more. Cain had been distracted during sparring.

They were maybe two days out of Mont-de-glace, Cain had guessed. If all had gone according to plan, Lina and the other agent should already be there waiting for them.

Dominic went to sleep sore every night, but the heavy Templar armor was getting more and more familiar each day. Cain had said that it would take a few weeks of moving inside it and sweating into the joints to loosen it up and he had been right.

He had haphazardly stacked the pieces of armor at the shoreline and waded into the stream to wash up. There had been few settlements between the Dales and Mont-de-glace, so they had been sleeping under the stars most nights. The wide stream had presented the best options in days to wash up before arriving at Mont-de-glace. Anya had agreed to stay at camp first while letting the two men clean up.

Dominic crouched, letting the current of the water wash over his shoulders, feeling the pebbly and muddy riverbed under his feet. It reminded him of days swimming in the Waking Sea just outside of town with some of the other boys.

Cain had carefully stacked his armor and waded ankle deep into the stream before he stepped out of his undergarments and tossed them up the shore. She submerged himself waist deep and cupped water in his hands, throwing it over his head, pushing his brown hair back across his head. He splashed another handful across his face, shaking the water off his eyes.

"It's a little crisp, but warmer than I thought," Dominic offered.

Cain chuckled. "I can't even remember the last time I dipped like this," he said. "Probably not since I was your age, back in Redcliffe. We used to sneak out of the house at night and go jumping off the docks into Lake Calenhad."

Cain was muscled all over. His stature reminded Dominic of the woodcutters moreso than the fishermen. The fishermen, like his father, had more of a stringy physique, the kind of endurance that came with good balance and a day full of tossing and pulling in nets. But the woodcutters had more strength through their back and chest from days of swinging axes.

Dominic supposed swinging a sword at people wasn't much different than swinging an axe at a tree.

Dominic had grown up quickly in his teen years and was still thin and lanky. His weight hadn't caught up to his height yet, although the long marches, frequent training and the weight of the armor were starting to develop some muscle on his frame. That, and he was eating two to three times as much as he ever had in Bricker's Break. Meat, something other than rams and fish, was one major benefit of leaving home.

"When it would get hot, we'd sometimes spend all day swimming just off the coast," Dominic said as he scrubbed himself under the water. He wished he had some soap. "Some days you could swim a couple hundred yards out to some of the stony islands if the sea was calm."

Cain waded in a bit deeper and dunked his head, scrubbing his fingers through his hair before tossing his head back and wiping his eyes again. He began massaging his shoulders with his hands, pinching out some tough spots on his neck. "You worshipped in the Chantry, right Dominic? Before all of this, I mean."

Dominic nodded. "We didn't have a Chantry or a sister, but yeah, the adults know the Chant and teach it to all the kids."

"And you believe?" Cain asked.

"Of course," Dominic quickly answered.

Cain's mouth turned. "What do you think about blood magic?"

Dominic tried to remember. "Magic is meant to serve man, and never to rule over him," he quoted. "Blood magic is forbidden. Blood mages are maleficar."

Cain nodded. "And you believe that too?"

Dominic nodded. He didn't grasp why Cain was asking. The ban on blood magic was something all Andrastrians, at least outside of Tevinter, understood and believed. Cain went back to washing up.

Dominic lifted his feet off the riverbed, leaning back and floating, giving a gentle sweep of his arms and legs to glide across the water. The current tugged, but wasn't so strong to sweep them downstream. During a heavy rain or wet times, it must have moved much quicker. He could see lines on the shore where the waterline usually was. It had been dry since the Exalted Plains, so the river was down.

The sound of the river running reminded him of home. There were tons of small streams and waterfalls running to the Waking Sea. He had probably walked the length of fifty of them in his youth until they ran into steep rock faces or disappeared underground.

The sun was shining. A few puffy clouds bounced through the sky. The wind was calm, a slight gentle breeze from time to time. Birds were singing.

He missed Lina.

She had always started conversations, whistled or sang songs while they were walking. After Bricker's Break, she had asked him a lot about his family and how he had lived day to day in such a small, remote place. As he talked about chopping wood, pulling in nets, cutting and salting fish - all of the mundane things he had done - she seemed genuinely interested. She didn't say much about where she had come from or what she did. He knew she was a servant in a noble's house. He knew elves weren't often treated well.

Cain and Anya kept mostly to themselves, and lately they had been speaking less after leaving the Exalted Plains. There were times when they might be walking an hour or more in silence before stopping to take a break. Dominic felt awkward around Lina before, but he was genuinely uncomfortable around Anya. He didn't understand her. Although she had lived her entire life in the Circle Tower, she didn't seem to enjoy being free that much.

She should, he thought.

He did, at least. He gazed upon the changing landscape of Orlais with wonder. He knew forests and hills and cliffs, but mountains, rolling flatland and the luxurious homes of Orlais were incredible. Even as Cain explained that some of the towns they walked into were considered poorer areas of Orlais, he was shocked by generally how clean and well-kept they were. They made Bricker's Break look like an outhouse and the outhouses look like … something even worse than that. Dominic didn't even know if there was something worse.

Dominic glided back toward Cain, who was still scrubbing himself. "Sergeant Wygard, I wanted to ask, if it's OK, about Templars," he said.

Cain motioned with a hand for Dominic to feel free to ask.

"That thing you do, to stop mages from casting spells, how do you do that?" Dominic asked. Cain laughed. "What? I'm being serious."

Cain scooped a handful of water again and tossed it over his head, then put his hands on his hips. "I don't really know how to explain it. Once they dose you with the lyrium you just kind of, get it, I suppose. I've heard them say you don't actually need lyrium to be able to do it, but I've never met a normal person who could choke the Fade."

Cain looked up toward the sky, then smiled and looked back down at the river. "It's funny, actually. You're taught all this stuff about the evils of magic, but the Templar power is kind of its own magic."

"Those templars back at Calen's Roost, they said something about your sword and your anti-magic," Dominic asked.

Cain nodded. "You can deflect a spell with a shield, no problem. Even a normal soldier can do that, to an extent. Since the Chantry invests a lot of time in training Templars, they want to make sure you don't get killed the first time you have to scrape with a mage."

Pellion had just taken his oaths a month before the Chantry exploded. He used to serve with the Red Iron mercenaries, until he had a falling out with the Captain. He carried a mace and he hit as hard as an ogre with it. During training he had dented so much armor of the other recruits that they initiated him early to prevent a backlog down at the forge.

He had never been good with a shield. It showed when the mages rebelled. One of the elf girls threw a cone of ice up right as he charged getting ready to crush her into the street with that heavy mace of his. He was frozen stiff, hammer raised high above his head. The elf girl fired a pulse of force, tearing his frozen right arm clear off his body as if she snapped a twig from a tree. The second blow shattered his torso into a hundred pieces.

"Before they'll let you transition from sword and shield, you've got to prove your ability with the power," Cain said. "The Knight Lieutenant who oversaw my testing said I had some of the best control over the talent that he had seen in twenty years."

Cain could still remember the hazy eyes of Ser Moran, that glassy, bluish fog that covered the surface. He was the most senior Templar in the Gallows at the time. He had been taken off active duty, for the most part, but still oversaw training. In his age, he had developed an exceptional mastery of the gift.

One day, Ser Moran stopped showing up for training. Weeks went by before they were given notice that he had passed in his sleep. At his viewing in the Chantry, he looked so pale and gaunt, but you could feel the residual hum of lyrium in the air around his body. He had run his life through in the Chantry.

"He told me once that Templars who had magic in their bloodline always were the best at it," Cain said. "Knight Commander Meredith had magic in her line. Most people didn't know that about her. I always wondered if that's how she lasted so long with the red lyrium, or why it ultimately destroyed her the way it did."

Dominic let his body float and let the current push him back down the river past Cain as he looked up into the sky. "I don't understand why everyone can't just be who they are," he said.

Cain chuckled as the young man floated past. "That's because there were no mages where you come from. Magic just complicates everything."

"Is that why things have been so weird between you and Anya?" Dominic said as he pushed his way back upriver against the current.

Cain shot a disapproving glance. Dominic might have quickly apologized, but there was one lesson in his mind currently. _A knight must never fear to be bold, but must always remember to be respectful. _"It's just been awkward, since the Exalted Plains," Dominic said.

"No more awkward than you and Lina," Cain said, cracking a smile.

Dominic laughed too. "Yeah, you noticed that, huh?"

"Frequently," Cain said, splashing a little bit of water toward Dominic. "But like I said, magic just complicates everything."

Cain splashed a little more water against his chest and rolled his arms, stretching his arms across his chest and rolling his neck. He threw some punches into the air and twisted at the waist to turn out his back. Satisfied with his stretched, he began to wade back toward the shore, wiping water off him as he emerged from the river. He slipped back into his pants and shook out his wet hair with a hand.

Dominic followed shortly after, bounding quickly to grab his pants and slipping back into them before anyone might catch a glance. Modesty, at least, still had a place in the world, he thought.

"Do you think I could ever win over Lina?" Dominic blurted as he padded some of the extra water off his chest with his training towel. He felt stupid as soon as the words escaped his lips.

Cain laughed. "She's a little bit… spirited," he said after pausing to think of the right word. "But you never know. The world has turned upside down, of late."

Dominic smiled, blushing a little even and slipped back into his shirt. "You can send Anya," he said. "I'm going to try to catch something for dinner. I saw a few silversides on the far bank."

Cain scooped up his armor and returned back to the campsite bare-chested, while Dominic scooped up a sturdy branch that had fallen from one of the nearby trees. He had carried some line and a few hooks with him - keepsakes from home, but functional keepsakes - and tied the line. He dug his fingers deep into the grassy soil, pulling up a chunk of soft earth into his hand. He brushed the grass away and carefully picked between the small white roots, pinching a fat, wriggling grub between his fingers.

Dominic baited the hook and went back to the shoreline, dipping his bare feet back into the river and tossing the line in, watching as the current pulled it taut just downstream. He planted the branch between his legs, holding it with his knees and ran his fingers through the smooth pebbles along the shore.

He exhaled, tossing his head back and looking back up to the sky.

"Hello, Dominic," Anya said as she approached behind him, her staff keeping step with her as she crossed through the tall grass.

"Anya," he said, sitting upright and grabbing the pole. "I was going to stay and fish, but if you're going to wash, I can come back in a bit."

Anya smiled, her hazel eyes shining in the sunlight, the light freckles that dusted across her nose on full display in the bright light. Her brown hair fluttered behind her in the breeze. "You can stay, if you promise not to peek," she said.

"I promise I won't," Dominic said, turning his head back downstream. "I'll keep my eyes focused right down this way. Eyes on my line, staring at that rock right there and not turning my head whatsoever until you say it's OK."

Anya drove the staff down, planting the end into the dirt so it would stay on its own. "I trust you Dominic," she said. "I remember how polite and respectful you were back in your mother's home. I know you wouldn't peek."

Dominic pulled his line back in and recast it as Anya slipped out of her robes behind him. "I did peek at Lina, just for a second," he admitted bashfully then sighed. "I know I shouldn't have. I did feel bad about it afterward."

Anya shook her head as she stepped out of her shoes and slipped into the water, her skin prickling as she hit the cool water. "Don't worry, I won't tell her when we see her in Mont-de-glace," Anya said. "_Although I'm sure you weren't the first to see it," _she thought in her head.

Anya waded into the middle of the riverbed and leaned back, lowering herself into the water. She rubbed her fingers through her hair as the water flowed around her head, pulling her fingers through like a wide-toothed comb.

"Why have things been so awkward between you and Cain, lately?" Dominic asked. He hadn't gotten much of an answer from Cain, but he was hoping she would be more forthcoming. His father always said women were gossips at heart and would talk about anything, even things they weren't supposed to.

There was a long silence. Dominic could hear her washing behind him as he kept his eyes forward on his line. She was there, but not answering. But then after a few minutes of quiet, she said, "He killed a mage."

"Wasn't the mage controlling the corpses that attacked camp?" Dominic asked, confused.

"Yes, but it's not that. It's how he did it," Anya said. She had stopped washing. "He was young, just like you or me. He was a blood mage, yes, but he surrendered and pleaded for his life. Then Cain just killed him."

Dominic gave his line a gentle jerk. There was a fish swimming nearby. The little tug might tantalize it. "Are you afraid of him?"

"Not like you're thinking," Anya said.

"Then how?"

Anya began splashing again behind him. "There's so much pain in him, I think," she said. "I want to take that pain away from him, so he can move on."

Dominic nodded. "I know what you mean," he said. "I felt the same way about Lina. She's stunningly beautiful, sure. And she acts so confident, so bold. But I couldn't help but feel that she was so sad underneath all that. Just the way she acted around my little sister was so, so different."

He could hear Anya stepping out of the water, back onto the shore, the dripping as she emerged from the stream. "I know you didn't like her," Dominic continued. "But I couldn't help but feel drawn to her, once I saw that. She needs someone, maybe not me, but someone to heal that hurt. I think Cain is the same way. I think he needs you more than he'd want to admit."

Anya stepped up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned his head and she gave him a hug, then went back to camp.

* * *

They sat around the fire, bowls in hand filled with a brothy fish soup.

Dominic had caught a fat silverside, enough to make a decent stock and fill the pot with flakes of meat.

The sun had set hours ago, but he had made them all wait until the broth had thickened slightly and turned a light brownish color. It was worth the wait.

They shared stories around the flames, Anya telling stories about the Circle Tower and Cain's sisters. He asked questions, learning things about Jenna and Jessa that he had never known. He had lived his whole life apart from them, but Anya told him stories that made him smile from ear to ear.

Dominic sat quietly on the other side of the firepit, slowly sipping at his soup and smiling at the stories himself.

Their bowls were long empty after that when the stories finally faded and the small logs in the fire were barely burning with a dim, orange light.

But there was enough light that he could see Cain slide his hand over just slightly, wrapping around Anya's fingers. She reclined just a bit, resting on his shoulder as they watched the flames burn down.

"I can take the first watch," Dominic offered. He felt at peace her near the river. They hadn't seen another traveler pass all day. They were far enough off the road that the only thing around them were the plants and the wildlife.

"Wake me up halfway through the night," Cain said quietly.

Dominic nodded, lifting his swordbelt and his shield as he stood. "You two get some rest."

Through the dim, Dominic could see Anya smiling as he stepped away from the fire and into the darkness of the night.


	21. Chapter 21

**Twenty-one**

The sun scorched the earth, long beams burning the stone and sand underfoot.

The red-black blood bubbled, boiling in the heat. The light reflecting off the silver armor was blinding. The wind blew the sand, already starting to drift up over the bodies on the ground.

Sylanni heaved breath in and out, her daggers heavy in her hands, pulling her arms down. Blood dripped off the points, leaving two red spots in the sand on either side of her feet. Her body was covered in a sheen of sweat and she could feel thirst creeping up again as she baked in the midday sun.

But she could not bring herself to move as she stared down at the kill.

_Sylaise. Hearthkeeper. Healer. What have I done?_

The beautiful music pounded in her head. Beckoning. Nearly irresistible. Calling.

The connection and presence she felt just moments before was silent. Understanding. Fellowship. Cut and dead.

Two Grey Wardens lie dead at her feet.

* * *

Every step Sylanni took west was growing agony.

The song had been there upon the Storm Coast. Fleeting at times, a quiet nagging, like the buzz of cicadas filling the air in the summer. At Tarasyl'an Te'las, it was more prominent, seemingly louder and harder to ignore.

By the time she had reached Lydes, the music was so loud, so present and so alluring that Sylanni had forced herself off the Imperial Highway and into the woods of the Heartlands. The buzz of wildlife, the rustle of the trees and the crunching carpet of leaves under her feet was distraction enough. She stopped deep in the heart of the woods, sat upon the earth, closed her eyes and meditated, pushing all else out of her mind.

She pushed out the noise, she pushed out the subtle sickness she could feel in her blood all the times, she pushed out the stress and the fatigue of the road. She filled herself with the smell of pollen, the slight cool dampness of the air and the vibrations of life around her.

The brief detour brought enough relief until she was able to reach Val Foret.

The city was not nearly as grand as Lydes, but still ostentatious in comparison to any Fereldan settlements. The Grey Wardens maintained a small base there, as they did in most Orlesian cities. The Wardens presence in Orlais had always been strong, unlike their neighbors to the east. The old kings of Ferelden had done more damage to the Order than they could have imagined.

The Wardens' safehouse looked hardly any different than the shops and homes lining the streets of Val Foret, except for the blue and white griffon banner adorning the front of the pristinely painted white facade.

She entered, to find that the place was almost totally deserted except for a young man sweeping the floors.

"Hail, Warden," the young man said as Sylanni approached. "I didn't expect to see anyone for weeks."

He was not Joined, that was clear. A servant, maybe, or a Seneschal like grizzled Varel back at the Vigil. Too young, though, she thought. "I'm traveling from Ferelden," Sylanni said. "Heading west."

The young man nodded as he kept sweeping. "Of course, everyone is heading west. Commander's orders. Will you be joining them? I wasn't aware that any of the Wardens from Ferelden had been called."

She wasn't planning on joining anyone. She had only stopped to get provisions and information and explore whether more of the Wardens were hearing this Calling that was in her head all day. It was apparent that yes, that was the case.

"It's unrelated business," Sylanni said bluntly. "Is there a Captain here? Or any other senior Wardens?"

He shook his head. "Nope, as I said, they all went west. They didn't tell me where they were going and I didn't ask. I know to keep my nose out of Warden business. Just help with the cleaning and cooking and stabling the horses and keep my head down," he said. "Constable Luc left some information upstairs for any Wardens that might be checking in after they left. I can take you up to his office, if you wish."

The constable's notes were brief.

_Wardens,_

_If you're hearing the Calling, you're not alone. We're not sure whether it's genuine or not, but we've received word from Warden Commander Clarel who is investigating. Orders are for all Wardens to report to Adamant Fortress as soon as possible. Watch out for darkspawn in the Western Approach._

_Be wary of this so-called Inquisition, too. We have no quarrel with them, yet, but the Commander is advising caution. There will be more information when you arrive at Adamant._

_In peace, vigilance. In war, victory. In death, sacrifice._

_Warden-Constable Lucas Anjouris, Val Foret_

Sylanni ate a hearty dinner, sharpened her blades in the armory, cleaned up her armor and restocked her supplies. The dormitory was large enough to hold twenty Wardens, but she was the only one bedding down on the soft mattress that night.

She left in the morning before the young servant was awake.

Sylanni followed the bends of the rivers and creeks west of Val Foret, watching as the verdant Heartlands of Orlais faded to grassy prairie. The farther west, the grass began to become sparser, giving way to a semi-arid, stony flatland. After a few more days, the rivers now well behind her, the Western Approach gave fully to desert.

She carried several bottles, filled with water whenever she could find it. The trek was long and many had died in the harsh wastes.

This land was forever scarred by Blight.

She could feel the emptiness, the scars and wounds of a sickness that would never heal. Her heart was filled with pain as she looked across sand dunes and wind-blasted stones, spotting only spiny desert predators and the infrequent stony plants twisted and hardened to survive the arid wastes.

Sylanni slept during the day, in whatever shade she could find and traveled at night when the temperatures dipped toward freezing. She uttered prayers to Mythal as the mother's moon hung heavy in the sky, seeming so close to the earth that she could reach out and grasp it in her hand

The darkspawn still roved the surface at nightfall. She had cut through three small patrols of the spawn, the red flames of her daggers trailing through the darkness in ribbons as she slashed through blackened flesh and jagged black iron armor. She left black footprints in the sand as she trudged through putrid blood and continued forward. The skirmishes were a small price to pay to stay out of the midday heat and the off chance to being attacked as the sun beat down.

This land was dead.

There were no plants here. The few animals that roved the sands were wirey, hardy and aggressive for whatever prey they could find. The phoenixes, lurkers and quillbacks she passed were all sizing her up. One of the varghests had apparently deemed her small statute a fair match for a meal. Sylanni left it with gaping burns in its flank, sending it howling in retreat.

This land was forgotten.

Aside from the rusted metal spires that jutted up from the sand, there were no settlements, no people here. There was nothing but flat emptiness. Drifting sand had buried anything that once was, masked by centuries of wind reclaiming this place.

Adamant was far to the south, at the edge of the Abyssal Reach, but she was staying far north.

There were not Wardens here.

Only the Calling.

The senior Wardens had spoke of the voice of the Archdemon. During the Fifth Blight, the great dragon had invaded their dreams, its whispers and orders seeping into their consciousness from time to time. Commander Caron had only heard little of it, being in Orlais at the time. The Orlesian Wardens had all felt it was a Blight, but they awaited word from Ferelden before assisting.

The Commander had regretted that they had not acted sooner to assist. He lamented that Mahariel had to be the one to strike the final blow to Urthemiel. She was so young. A senior Warden should have taken the blow for her.

But this, this was different, Sylanni was sure.

The music was always there, it never really went away and had only grown more powerful as she traveled farther west. It was almost as if the song were coming from the abyss, music amplified and pouring out into the word from the blackened rift in the earth.

She could hardly sleep and she dared not rest longer than she needed for fear that she might awake to find herself unknowingly underground in the Deep Roads.

The music was so beautiful, even more soothing than the ancient songs Hallu had sung of the Dales and the lost culture of their people. She could recall closing her eyes around the fire at the center of camp, swaying slightly as the Keeper regaled them in the slow, sorrowful dirges of their history. She would weep, thinking of all that had been lost but of the beauty of the verse in how the People remembered it.

Darkspawn had despoiled those memories too, just as they had destroyed the Western Approach.

That taint was in her blood now. She could feel the poison in her veins, sometimes, slowly sickening her blood and her flesh, making her ill. To destroy the darkness, she had willingly taken darkness inside her soul. She blackened day by day.

She hoped the Taint would not so corrupt her spirit and deny her the Beyond, some day.

The mountains in the west were growing larger every day, her eyes set on the tallest of them, a ringed summit laced with snow but also smoking with ash and sulfur and heat.

Arl Dumat. A fitting name for a the peak that was laced in black igneous stone from countless eruptions over the centuries since Dumat first despoiled the world in the first Blight. If she could make the peak, she would cross into the Sea of Ash and seek out this fortress Cain Wygard had spoken of.

If there were more of the lyrium-corrupted darkspawn there, she would find them too.

* * *

"Hail, sister!"

The scouts were riding horses, patrolling the cliffs, looking for darkspawn and other Wardens. Sylanni held her hand up to hail the approaching riders. They circled around her and dismounted, one before her, one slightly to her side.

"Greetings," said the Warden before her, offering a salute. "Ensign Nikolas and my wife, Ensign Alektra. On your way to Adamant, I take it?"

He did not sound Orlesian and his wife was tall and strong and had the look of an Anders, Sylanni thought. He must have been Nevarran or a Marcher. "In time," Sylanni answered. "I have business elsewhere in the Approach."

"Nothing happening in the Approach except the muster at Adamant," Nikolas said.

"Commander Clarel's orders are for all Wardens to report to Adamant, immediately," Alektra agreed.

Sylanni was not a liar and she was unpracticed interacting with humans and unfamiliar with how the Orlesian Wardens operated. "It won't be long. I'm from Ferelden. I wanted to take in the depth of the damage the Blight has done to this land, to have a greater understanding of my duty. I was planning to follow the foothills south down toward the abyss and onward to Adamant."

"The Commander stressed no delays of any kind," Nikolas said. "I'm sorry."

Sylanni straightened. "I understand your orders. As I said, I come from Ferelden. I offered to make the long journey to Orlais when I caught word that Commander Clarel was doing something to try to stem this Calling. Like you, am I have only been Joined for a short period of years." Sylanni looked at both of the Wardens and narrowed her eyes. "I come here willingly, but I do not serve the Commander in Orlais. I intend to continue west before joining the Order at Adamant Fortress. Now, forget you saw me and be on your way."

The husband and wife exchanged a glance. "That's not acceptable," Nikolas said, reaching his hand down to his swordbelt.

"You would dare to draw steel against another of the Order?" Sylanni challenged. Alektra had her hand on her swordbelt too, she saw.

"Orders are orders," Alektra said. "You can comply willingly, or we can sling you over our horse and drag you to the Commander, Dalish."

Sylanni's daggers were out and she crouched into attack position in an instant. Both of the other Wardens drew their swords and took a defensive stance. "Get out of my way," Sylanni said.

"Sheath your weapons, elf," Nikolas responded.

Alektra was circling to her flank. "I don't want to fight you," Sylanni said. "But I will not be impeded. Stay your arms."

Alektra charged.

The husband and wife now lie just a few feet from each other now, dead.

Their blood intertwined in the sand.

Sylanni slowly slid her daggers back into their sheaths.

She prayed that the reports of the Wardens working with the darkspawn Corypheus were accurate, or else she would never be able to bring herself before the Order again. She had killed these two. All they had wanted was for her to join her kind, to find a way to stop the Calling that was driving her mad.

They were lovers. They were doing their duty. They didn't deserve to die for that.

The music pulsed.

"_Sylaise, Healer of Hurts, grant me the strength to persevere. Tend the fire of my fading soul and let me blaze in your honor. I give my life to you, as always."_

In this dead place, the land was silent. The goddess was silent. There was only the song.

She could feel the sickness inside her, twisting her stomach.

Had the blackness finally taken her?

Had she finally become the monster?

Sylanni threw her head back and screamed to the sun.


	22. Chapter 22

**Twenty-two**

Mont-de-glace was no Val Royeaux.

This was the edge of the Empire. The buildings and streets looking particularly humble in comparison to the rest of Orlais. The city was still far more affluent and garish than anything you'd find in Ferelden or the poorer city-states in the Marchers, but this city was far more functional than decorative, Cain thought.

Cain could smell the sea as soon as he stepped past the white-stone walls and the gilded gates off the main road. There were countless wagons heading north as they had come back to the main road and closed within a day of the city. This was a port, and although it didn't connect ships to any other major settlements, it was clearly an important piece of the Orlesian economy.

There were wagons filled with barrels of cured fish heading to the other cities. Industrial ores and precious metals that were being mined in the Gamordans passed through Mont-de-glace before heading north.

And the city was covered in pearls. They had quickly found that pearls were grown and farmed here, but there were also several experienced hunters who prowled the shores searching for natural pearls. A talented pearl hunter who could find a large stone could almost guarantee it would land upon the Empress.

A day back, they had discarded everything that even remotely identified them as Inquisition. Anya had gone through the meticulous preparation to don her fine black silken robes and accessories and carefully apply the expensive cosmetics. She had woken up well before sunrise and not been prepared to go the sun was creeping upward toward noon.

Cain could hardly keep his eyes off her.

"Madam! Madam!" one Orlesian yelled from his stall. "Madam, a woman of your beauty should not be wearing feathers. Your neck should only be graced with the finest pearls of the sea." He held up string of his pearls, small in comparison to others that Cain had seen upon some of the other stalls. "If you would do me the honor."

Anya raised her hand before the seller could step around the side of his lavishly decorated stall. "No, I would rather not," she said flatly with an air of annoyance. "These may be acceptable for the average woman, but I would not allow such a paltry collection even touch my neck." She brushed the back of her fingers gently down her neck, across the black lace just to her breast before letting her hand fall to the side. "Good day, sir."

She snapped her head and pressed on without sparing so much as a look back. Cain and Dominic had to scurry forward to keep step with her.

"How was that?" Anya asked, smiling as if she had just snuck a cookie from the kitchen without the cook knowing.

"I think he's crying," Dominic said, looking over his shoulder.

"He'll probably take his own life tonight," Cain added.

Anya frowned and her eyes were sad. "Oh, don't even joke like that, Cain."

"Madam de Fer would be proud. You played the part well, for a start," Cain said. That made her smile.

That smile melted him.

He could still feel her body leaning against him near the dying fire of their camp two days back, as Dominic conveniently wandered away to leave them alone.

"I'm sorry," Cain had said.

She didn't answer, except to lean up and kiss him. "Hold me tonight," she had said.

He wrapped his arms around her as they fell asleep together near the fire.

Dominic never came to wake him up that night.

He was glad for it.

Dominic yawned as they walked down the streets of Mont-de-glace. He still hadn't recovered, even though they had been able to lodge at an inn a few miles out of the city the night previous and all got to sleep through until dawn.

There was a strong Chantry presence here. The large church towered above the rest of the buildings in the center of the city, a steeple of colored glass that pierced the sky and cast rainbows across the city.

As they passed a Templar in the lane, he gave a nod to Cain and Dominic. They each returned it but as the Templar drew close to Cain, he could immediately feel that uneasy twinge in him.

Red lyrium.

They didn't wear it openly and none were outwardly corrupted, but Cain could feel it on almost all of the Templars in the city. A few were beginning to show red rings in their eyes and he could feel the chaotic energy on them. A normal person would never notice, but Cain could feel the difference in the ether.

If Anya had noticed, she was hiding it well behind her acting.

Lina and Harper would be waiting for them at the inn closest to the waterfront, hopefully with more information. They had been traveling weeks to get to Mont-de-glace, but Cain suddenly realized he wasn't sure how they were supposed to make contact with this Red Sun.

They would need to take a ship across the sea, but if the Path of Penitence was as secret as the Left and Right Hands of the Divine had suggested, he wouldn't be able to just go asking about for it. But the Red Templars were everywhere. This cult had overrun the entire city - quietly, it appeared - so someone must know. Cain turned them down the lane to the Chantry.

The Chantry was the most lavish building in the city, its crystalline spire a brilliant feat of extravagance and engineering. The white stones that paved the streets up to it were lined with gold around the edges and doors in were gilded. Above the entryway, there was an intricate mosaic of Andraste and her followers, but as they walked closer, they could see it was all laid out in pearls that had each been painted by hand.

They entered the Chantry, the smell of incense and smoke thick in the air as fires burned near the front of the church. The church was filled with hardwood pews, hand-carved and crafted. Golden statues lined the alcoves. A large brazier burned brightly at the front below a large golden statue of Andraste, the flames licking up around her feet as they flickered in the air.

"Welcome, my children," the Revered Mother said as she approached up the center aisle. "You must be travelers, because I have not seen you here before. I'm sure you are weary of the road."

"Yes, your Reverence," Cain said, bowing his head respectfully.

She was middle-aged, not nearly as old as most Revered Mothers Cain had come across in his life. She had some wrinkles to her features, but she moved with grace. Her hair had streaks of grey in it. She spoke with an Orlesian accent, but not southern. She sounded like she had spent many years in Val Royeaux.

"Then I welcome you warmly to Mont-de-glace." The Revered Mother looked at Anya critically. "I see you travel with a mage. These are strange times in our world, but I trust you are using your gifts safely and have not turned to the forbidden magics in these strange times. Especially not with these two fine, young gentlemen."

"I can only hope this freedom lasts," Anya said.

The Revered Mother frowned at that, but did not continue. "What brings you travelers to Mont-de-glace? It is a long journey."

Cain began to reach toward his pocket for the prayerbook, but then stopped. If she was truly a Revered Mother, she wouldn't know of the secret path. If she was an imposter, he wouldn't want to so wantonly throw that around. Instead, he said, "We are actually searching for another mage, an Antivan. Her name is Carissa Antierra, and we were told she was here in Mont-de-glace."

The Revered Mother shook her head. "I do not know this mage, I'm sorry. Most mages avoid the Chantry."

Cain tried again. "She often travels with many Templars, I've been told. I see there are many Templars here in Mont-de-glace, perhaps you would know of them?"

The older woman shook her head again. "While there are many Templars, they do not serve this Chantry any more since the Nevarran Accord has been annulled. I'm afraid it is only myself and the other sisters here, now."

Cain pursed his lips. Perhaps she was not involved. He didn't feel any red lyrium here inside the church. She wore the typical garb of the Chantry, nothing unusual about her dress, no strange markings like they had discovered earlier upon the Storm Coast. "Thank you, your Reverence. I'm sorry to have wasted your time."

"It is no trouble, my child," she said.

"Revered Mother, if I may have your blessing?" Dominic said. She nodded and Dominic took a knee before her. She held out her hand over his head and prayed.

"Andraste, Bride of the Maker, we pray for your blessing. Protect this young man, who travels the world in service to your name. Shield him against the evils of this world in these dark times. Provide him strength to carry his burdens and help spread the Chant to all corners of the world through his example. We ask these blessings in your name."

Dominic rose and the Revered Mother slipped her hands back into the sleeves of her habit at her waist. Cain motioned for them to leave and they turned for the door, except for Anya. "Wait," Anya said, raising her chin in the air. "This woman is a liar."

Anya reached forward, grabbing the Revered Mother's habit at the collar as she lifted her other hand and sparked a ball of lightning into her palm.

"What are you doing?" Cain asked. He drew his sword - to keep up appearances - and Dominc followed suit. "She is a Revered Mother of the Chantry!"

"I find it odd that she would so casually mention these 'forbidden magics' especially when I am traveling with two Templars. Unless perhaps she's seen many blood mages and Templars traveling together?" Anya said.

"Blood magic is abomination," the Revered Mother said. "With so many mages traveling freely, there have been rumors."

"You're lying," Anya said, pushing the ball of lightning closer to the Revered Mother's face. "You see me, clearly, old woman. You know I have not lived some sheltered Circle life. These Templars do not travel with me for my protection. They travel with me because I demand it. I command them. They obey _my _will."

Cain could feel her drawing magic and he felt a gentle tugging at his sword as she pulled with a minor tug of force magic. "_Clever," _Cain thought. He gave a tug toward himself as if he was struggling and then felt Anya push a little harder. He loosed his grip on the sword and let her rip it out of his hands.

"Kneel," Anya commanded, using force to shove him from behind so he fell forward and down onto his knee. Cain lowered her head in reverence to Anya.

Dominic stood frozen. Cain just hoped he didn't do anything to blow the act. Anya turned her head over her left shoulder to Cain. "I require your blood, pet," she hissed.

Cain did not respond, until Anya took her hand off the Revered Mother and turned, extending her hand like a claw toward him. He could feel Anya nudging him with force again, hinting him to act. He feigned a struggle for a second, then swiftly reached to his belt, pulled his knife in his right hand and slashed it across his left palm.

He grimaced at the pain, but lifted his bloody hand up toward Anya as an offering.

"Enough," the Revered Mother said, holding up her hand. "That's not necessary."

Anya waved her hand dismissively at Cain. He let his arms fall to his sides for effect before he stood, cradling his left hand. Anya nodded at Dominic and he sheathed his sword. "I'm glad I do not need to waste my talents with a needless show of power." She had that same cold, bitchy tone she had used deftly on the pearl seller earlier. "You know why we're here."

"I suppose they did not tell you to meet Raphael at the Lonely Lantern?" the Revered Mother said.

"They did not," Anya said.

The Revered Mother groaned. "These recruiters are getting sloppy and careless."

"Quite," Anya agreed. "I was not told about this Raphael."

Anya motioned over her shoulder for Cain to approach. "Give me your hand," she commanded. As he extended it, she began to heal it, while not looking down at it.

"Ser Raphael du Valen is in charge of the transports across the sea. He will take you to Penitence, if you indeed have the passes."

Cain reached into his pouch and pulled the prayerbook out now, holding it up for the Revered Mother to see.

"Yes, very well," she said. "The ships leave early in the morning, before dawn. The fog is always heavy at the docks, so there is a degree of discretion. We operate quietly here. The city guard and the townsfolk are not aware of what is transpiring, although they will be brought to heel soon under the Red Sun.

"Ser Raphael will be in the common room. He does not wear his armor, but will be dressed in Chantry Garb, with a red sunburst upon his chest. You will not be able to miss him," the Revered Mother said. "You've made it just in time. Another transport is setting out tonight. The next trip would not be until next new moon."

"It appears providence is with us," Anya said. She finished mending Cain's hand, giving it a slight squeeze he took to mean "_Sorry." _Anya nodded to the Revered Mother. "We thank you for your assistance."

The Revered Mother put her hand out again as she had done as she blessed Dominic earlier.

"The sun rises in the east, but sets red in the west."


	23. Chapter 23

**Twenty-three**

The common room of the inn was dim, a few lanterns burning as they hung from hooks on the walls.

The sound of the harp was softly in the background along with chatter. Lina stood in the corner, slowly singing, ignoring Cain, Anya and Dominic completely. Her voice was low and sweet, casting calm tones over the muted crowd in the inn. There were several Templars and mages in the room, looking comfortable as if they had been waiting for days and become used to taking meals and spending evenings in the common room.

_Find me, still searching, for someone, to lead me.  
__Can you, guide me, to the revolt inside me?_

They each had a glass of red wine, fire-roasted half-chickens and slowly stewed potatoes and carrots. It was a very good fare for an inn. Their plates sat steaming and no one had touched their food yet.

All their eyes were on the fourth man at the table.

"Please, eat," he said. "Do not worry about the cost. It is all taken care of."

"Thank you, for your generosity, Ser du Valen," Cain said. Dominic didn't wait and dug into his food.

Raphael du Valen wore a dark samite robe with gold trimming and intricate Orlesian stitching. Upon the chest, as promised, he wore the Chantry sunburst, but unlike the typical white or gold, it was embroidered in a deep red thread.

His head was completely bald and his face had lines of age that suggested he might be in his fortieth years. But for the most part his flesh was smooth between those creases. His voice was deep and Orlesian. He spoke with formality and confidence of a lord. His name and stature indicated he had come from nobility in Orlais. He must have been a third or fourth son to have ended in a life of service in the Chantry.

Two leather straps crossed his chest, holding scabbards for twin longswords hovering over his back. The pommels were jeweled, the leather was masterwork and Cain wagered there would be finely honed silverite or aurum blades inside.

If nothing else, his garb instantly spoke of wealth and power, a man who had risen high in the Chantry.

"So I hear you were sent by Carissa," Raphael said. "I am amazed by the people she has been able to find and recruit. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintances, Madam?"

"Anya," she said sipping her wine with one hand and extended her other hand. Raphael took her fingers in his hand and planted a gentle kiss of respect upon the jeweled rings on her fingers. "Charmed, Ser du Valen. These are my companions, Knight-Sergeant Cain Wygard of Kirkwall and Knight-Ensign Dominic Bricker of Kinloch Hold."

"Kirkwall? Nasty business there, I hear," Raphael said.

"I don't talk about it," Cain said.

_Promise, surviving, the Breach.  
__Promise, surviving, the Breach, in the sky._

"I apologize for the sergeant's foul mood," Anya said with a smile. "He is particularly dour about the events. He had a great admiration for the Grand Cleric."

Cain put his head down and went to his food, playing the part. "I understand," Raphael said. "I could see why it would drive you to a cause such as ours."

_Templar, igniting, fire inside me._

Anya wagged her finger at the Orlesian. "You are mistaken, ser. We have committed to no cause … yet. Madam Antierra gave me precious little information, only that my particular skills would be very valuable and I would be greatly rewarded for my services," she leaned back, arrogantly flipping her hand up. "It is not easy for a young lady such as myself to court two Templars to my services. Although after a time, they began to start seeing things my way," she said with a smirk.

_Maker, remind me.  
__Gone are the days, of our peace._

"She can be somewhat curt. I think it's that Antivan blood." Raphael said. He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "It's quite simple really. The Chantry has failed. The Circles have failed. The Templar Order has failed. The Divine is dead. Orlais is torn apart. Ferelden is recovering from Blight. Tevinter is in a forever war with the Qunari, although the have lost their way long ago anyway.

"The Red Sun seeks to rebuild the Chantry, simply put, by force, if necessary. We hope it will not come to that, but we are ready, in case it does," Raphael said.

_Now we reside, in the great divide._

Anya played with one of her black feather earrings between her finger, looking pensive. "And what does the Red Sun need with blood mages? And this red lyrium I hear so much about?"

Raphael smiled and leaned back off the table. "That I cannot say, not here, not yet. The church is built upon faith. The Red Sun asks your confidence, that you might take the next step on your faith and hope for a better world."

_No promise, surviving, the Breach, in the sky._

Cain wiped his mouth. The chicken was delicious, peppery and well-cooked so that it was moist with just the right amount of grease. He dropped the bone of a wing on the plate. "And who is this Red Sun, anyway?"

Raphael smiled. "He is a man. He plans. He will act. More I cannot say."

"I have seen horrors, and to me, it sounds like only a demon could hold sway over so many disparate factions," Cain challenged.

_Are you, yet fighting, by yourself, to save me?  
__Can you, lead us, to the return of safety?_

"A demon could, perhaps. But I suspect a demon would not be interested in a restoration and glorification of the Chantry," Raphael said.

"I suppose not," Cain said. He didn't want to seem too obstinate. If he did, the Templar might choose not to take them across the sea.

_Promise, surviving, the Breach.  
__Promise, surviving, the Breach, in the sky._

"And what do you think, young man?" Raphael asked Dominic.

Dominic had speared two carrots and a wedge of potato with his fork, which he lifted slightly before his face now and considered for a second. "I joined the Templar Order only recently, just before the ordered disbanded," he said. "I wanted to serve the Maker, but then I was told I could no longer do that."

He tapped his fork against his plate. "That's not right. That's not the Chantry I grew up knowing."

_Mages, are falling, d__arkness around me._

"Precisely, young man," Raphael said, pointing to Dominic. "The Chantry was wise to accept you, but foolish to discard you."

_Holy, Andraste.  
Restore the days, of our peace._

"The Chantry should give people hope. It should be a source of strength, not of discord, pain and corruption. This is the vision of the Red Sun," Raphael said. He drank of his own glass of wine.

Cain could not feel any red lyrium from the man across the table. His eyes appeared normal, his skin was not mottled with the dark red veins that pushed themselves upward on the other Red Templars. His flesh looked normal, his breathing was steady.

His hands looked much older than his face, Cain noticed. They were worn, dry flesh, callouses, the signs of a warrior. As he spoke, he unconsciously rolled his wrists, like an older warrior might do trying to keep his joints from freezing up.

_Let us repair, our great divide._

"I am intrigued by your words," Anya said. "I would meet this Red Sun, if you will allow it. I hear a ship is leaving tonight for the distant fortress. I want to be on it."

"So you shall be," Raphael said.

_No promise, surviving, the Breach, in the sky._

The vocals dropped away and the harp music heightened as Harper played an extended bridge, her fingers flitting over the strings in short, dulcet tones that were both slow and somber. Having seen the Breach up close, Cain had a deep appreciation for the song. He had heard the bard Maryden sing it before in Haven, before its destruction.

There were no promises of surviving to see tomorrow any more.

Dominic was staring at Lina, who swayed slowly side to side with her eyes closed as Harper continued to strum and pluck the strings of her small harp.

Raphael looked over his shoulder, noticing where Dominic was looking. "They're quite good, no? Arrived less than a week ago, but they've been playing every night. Fair on the eyes as well."

"She's beautiful," Dominic agreed, drinking of his wine glass again.

Lina opened her eyes and looked up, noticing Dominic staring at her. She smiled, turned her head slightly to the side and winked before launching into the third verse.

_Now we, are watching, all waiting, for vict'ry.  
__Herald, lead us, to salvation, restore us._

_Promise, surviving, the Breach.  
__Promise, surviving, the Breach, in the sky._

_Herald, battling.  
Chaos around me._

_Herald, surviving.  
Close up the sky, restore peace._

_Only you can, end the great divide_

_No promise, surviving, the Breach, in the sky._

The music fell away slowly, the last note of the harp vibrating into silence.

The crowd gave a quiet round of applause, Lina curtseying slightly and Harper bowing her head.

"Excuse me," Dominic said, pushing himself up from the table. He ran a hand through his hair and confidently strode toward Lina.

They watched as he exchanged a few words, took her hand and kissed it - much as Raphael had done moments earlier to Anya. Cain thought Lina almost blushed. They chatted, Lina said something to Harper and then she slipped out of the common room, holding Dominic's hand as she pulled him away.

Raphael smirked and sipped his wine again. "I give him credit," he said. "She talks with just about every Templar in the place, but I haven't seen that yet. He doesn't read as much of a charmer."

"He has a dreadful weak spot for elves, I'm afraid," Anya said blithely. Cain smiled to himself at how well she was playing aloof.

She furtively stabbed at her food, piercing very small pieces, trying to look disinterested.

Raphael grimaced. "Can't stand the knife ears, myself. But I grew up in Val Royeaux and you couldn't walk down a street without some elf trying to paw through your pockets," he said, then fixated back at Anya. "So how long have you been off-leash, dear?"

"I'm not your dear, Ser," Anya snapped back. He dipped his head slightly in apology. "All my life, if you must know. Starkhaven."

Raphael looked interested. "Lot of Chantry in Starkhaven. How did you go unnoticed?"

"Gold makes the finest blinders," Anya said. "I happened to marry very young, a much older man, successful trader, who happened to have a very large treasury. He had a wife at the time, but a little magic here and there happened to turn his eye to me. His wife happened to take ill, poor thing, completely by accident of course. Well, you're from Val Royeaux, you know how these things happen."

"Hunting accidents are quite common in Orlais, yes," Raphael said. "And your gifts, how did you learn them?"

"How does anyone learn?" she said coyly. "In the Fade, of course, with a very willing teacher. I desired power. He desired the flesh, so much as it is across the Veil. When he taught me what I needed, I disposed of him. He had quite a lack of cunning, as I recall. Disappointing, somewhat."

"You are your own?" Raphael probed.

Anya turned to Cain, who nodded as he gnawed around the bones of another drumstick. "She is clean," he said.

Ella had mentioned her friend Tyla had been acting oddly. Tyla, the elf girl, had not been eating and was missing many of her lessons. She lay in bed most days, sleeping hours beyond what was normal. Sometimes she spoke in her sleep. Ella was worried. She hadn't wanted to tell the Templars about something strange happening to her bunkmate, especially since she knew she was rapidly approaching the day of her Harrowing.

Cain had gone to check it out. Immediately upon entering the room he could feel how tenuous and weak the Veil felt. The room was chill, despite it being the middle of summer. The other girls were out at their lessons and Tyla was wrapped under the blankets, dozing.

He came back with Ser Thrask. Something was not right. They shook the girl awake as she sat up, sleepily wiping her eyes. As soon as she opened them, both of the Templars could see the flicker of something else behind her eyes.

"Tyla, are you there?" Cain said, pulling his greatsword over his shoulder. She didn't answer. She was so young, just a teen. She had never been the best mage, but she was kind and polite and studied well. She would likely have been made Tranquil, he knew. "Tyla? Tyla, who else is there with you?"

Her eyes flitted with clouds and darkened to indigo. Her voice was much deeper than a young girl, the verberations. "No need to get so worked up, Sers," she said calmly, the air feeling warmer and damp and soothing. "Everything is fiiiiine."

Thrask shook his head, shaking off the sudden dreariness. "Sloth demon," he growled. "It's too late." Before the demon could act, Cain cut her down, spraying sticky red blood over the walls and the bed as his sword cleaved from her shoulder to her heart in one crushing blow.

"I'll inform the Knight Commander," Cain said. "Call the Tranquil to clean this mess up." He opened the door to Ella standing outside. He stepped out of the narrow crack, but she could see around him at the blood messy in her chamber. The young girl fell to her knees, screaming, a horrified wail.

Meredith made all three of the girl's roommates Tranquil the next day to make sure none had been affected. Cain would sometimes pass Ella in the halls, her dead, Tranquil eyes always staring straight ahead as she meandered to her next task.

She was killed during the rebellion, crushed to death as part of a wall collapsed on top of her.

Cain was glad, for her sake.

* * *

Lina pulled Dominic through the kitchen and out the back door of the inn, into the dark, narrow alley.

"Put your hands on my hips and lower your head," Lina commanded. "We don't have much time."

When he hesitated, she grabbed his hands and put them on her hips and then spun herself into the corner, pulling him very close to the wall. She was breathing quickly and her eyes darted around his side to make sure there was no one else in the alley. Dominic could feel her trembling under his hands.

He was trembling too, but for a different reason, he supposed.

"I hope you've realized how not safe you are here," Lina said quickly but quietly. "The city is swarming with these Red Sun cultists. Ships go in and out all day, always with crates that are sealed and not inspected at the docks. The cooks confided to me that that's not normal. A year ago, customs would be digging to the bottom of every bag, box and crate that comes anywhere near the water.

"All of the people in the Chantry are new. People have been disappearing at night. Several of the nobles have already left Mont-de-glace," she said.

"The Revered Mother is an imposter," Dominic whispered back. "She's working for them. We found that out this morning."

Lina nodded and pulled Dominic a little closer until his body was pressed up right on top of her as one of the doors in the alley swung open slightly and someone tossed a bucket of water, or some other liquid, out.

"Everyone is very tight-lipped," she said. "None of the Templars arriving know anything. The mages who show up I think are all blood mages, as far as I could find out. If we had another week I might know more. We got one mage drunk. He had been across the sea. They're definitely making their own Red Templars. The blood mages are important, they control the Templars and the darkspawn, he said. I couldn't get anything more specific.

"There are hundreds," Lina said. Another door flipped open and Lina jumped. "Be careful with Raphael. He's more than he seems. He comes and goes with the ships. Whoever is running this Red Sun, he's close to the top. Under your mattress in your room you'll find some notes Harper and I left.

"Now get out of here. Look happy when you get back. Here," Lina reached up and grabbed his face and kissed him before he could react. He could feel her tongue probe lightly into his mouth and felt her teeth slightly nibble at his lip. She pulled away just as quickly as she began.

Dominic looked dumbfounded. "That's perfect," she said with a smirk. Lina kissed his cheek again quickly and whispered in his ear. "Come back safe, Dominic. Please."

She wiggled out of his hands and slipped back inside the inn, the door quickly, quietly closing behind her.

Dominic inhaled, wondering how long he had been holding his breath. He stumbled a step, placing his hand on the wall to catch himself. He scratched the back of his head, ran his tongue across his lips and smiled.

He could taste the wine from her lips.

"_Come back safe, Dominic, Please." _

He felt flustered. He smiled a little wider and tossed the back door of the inn open. Dominic puffed up his shoulders and held his head high, unable to wipe the smile off his face. He took a deep breath as he stepped out of the kitchen and back into the common room. Lina was already humming and the next song had begun, but several pairs of eyes were on him.

Dominic swiped his thumb across his lips and went back to his table, sitting back down next to Cain. Raphael had gotten up and left.

Anya scowled. "Why are you suddenly so happy?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Well," Dominic started but then chuckled. He smiled wide again.

"Ugh," Anya said, rolling her eyes.

"I hope she had something to say too," Cain said.

Dominic nodded, touching his finger to his cheek where she had pecked him too. "Yeah, I can share later."

Cain clapped Dominic on the shoulder. "We're leaving tonight, before dawn. Get some sleep, if you can."

Cain and Anya pushed up from the table. Dominic grabbed his glass. "I'm going to stay, just for a bit longer."

He couldn't take his eyes off Lina.

And he couldn't stop smiling.


	24. Chapter 24

**Twenty-four**

Cain twirled the small bottle of lyrium between his fingers, watching as the viscous blue liquid sloshed from side to side.

The lyrium glowed slightly in the darkness of the room, only thin white beams of moonlight slipping through the curtains otherwise. Every time the liquid slid onto the other side of the glass, Cain could swear that he could hear a hum, as if someone very far away was humming a sweet tune to themselves.

He was supposed to have taken a half dose before bed. He chose not to.

He had laid in bed staring at the ceiling for a time after leaving the common room. Even with the pack of lyrium across the room, he swore he could hear that sweet hum.

Cain had heard Dominic come up about an hour ago, his footsteps creaking the floorboards of the hallway loudly, the stubborn doorknob turning and the hinges of the door whining as it opened, the latch clicking and lock turning.

There had been quiet murmuring for a little bit behind the far wall, another pair of travelers perhaps quietly talking before sleeping, but that had grown quiet even before Dominic had returned to his room.

He hear quiet female voices in the hall too, at one point, knowing that it was Lina and Harper calling their evening as well and slipping into their room at the far end of the hall. He had told Anya and Dominic to meet him in his room just before they set out to discuss their plans. Whatever information Dominic had, he could share and they would be off.

Cain intended to make Dominic stay. By force if necessary.

He turned the vial of lyrium over in his hand again, watching the blue liquid spill down along the sides of the glass. There were two more in his pack.

_You're slipping. _

The thought echoed through the silence of the room.

_Again._

The common room of the inn had that fuzz at the edges, that slight haze that dampened the sound, narrowed his vision and blurred his thoughts. He had tried to listen to the music, but as his eyes saw Harper plucking the strings, he could only hear the distant humming in his head.

At first, the meal he ate had been vibrant, delicious. He could taste the subtle spices, the pepper and the fulfilling succor of grease and meat. The more he ate, the food became so bland, so unremarkable that he only knew he was eating because of the texture on his tongue and the up and down motion of his jaw.

He wasn't sure how many hours he had been sitting now at the small table, spinning the vial of lyrium between his fingers, contemplating. The blackness of the room choked out all else, his eyes could only look at the luminescent lyrium.

Cain held the knife with his other hand, the point of the dagger just touching his shirt at his heart.

He twirled the glass.

Hawke was a blood mage. Meredith was right to distrust him. For years, the Champion of Kirkwall had poked and prodded in the city. Kirkwall stewed and boiled, the lid clattering up and down as heat and steam of discord bubbled up around the edges.

Some of the Templars had wanted to move on the apostate's clinic in darktown for years. Meredith had given it serious consideration, but thought better than to storm the underbelly of the city with a wing of Templars. Arresting, likely killing, one of the Champion's companions just for the right of it would have thrown the city into riots.

The Champion was untouchable, the way he wantonly marched around Hightown, his staff slung across his back, the very light of the sun dying as it hit his coal black hair and beard. Those eyes were always watching, an apostate's eyes, and behind them there was wickedness. He had killed the Arishok and liberated the city, but he was no hero.

Hawke brought the red lyrium to the surface. He riled the nobles and chafed the Chantry. His unfettered freedom in Kirkwall had only stoked the Knight Commander's paranoia and creeping madness.

How many late night raids did she call, the Templars storming the dormitories, throwing mages out of their beds and turning their rooms upside down looking for contraband? How many apprentices did he drag out of their chambers and into the Knight Commander's office to answer for some imagined crime? How many mages had he held as they forced lyrium down their throats for unjust Harrowings? How many more did he shackle to the walls so the senior Templars could brand their foreheads with the sunburst?

There were always more mages, dragged in from the outlying villages, separated from the poor families in Lowtown and Darktown and troublesome apprentices shipped in from other Circles in the Free Marches. So many left the Gallows as a puff of smoke and ash in a pyre.

His fingers trembled on the knife and he pushed down, feeling the prick of the steel bite through his shirt. He could feel the cold pinprick of metal on his flesh.

He twirled the vial, the lyrium spinning around the sides of the glass.

What had his mother looked like? He closed his eyes and could see the Chantry in Redcliffe all around him. The shelves of books and scrolls, the wooden beams stretching across the upper span, decoratively cut to look like sunrays. He could see the wings on the back end of the church, the pinkish-red stained glass windows up near the ceilings. This was the Chantry of his childhood, before the darkspawn burned and despoiled it, before it was rebuilt.

There was Mother Hannah, her weathered face but meticulously combed and styled hair that shone like silver in the firelight inside the Chantry. He could recall the sounds of the Chanters solemnly echoing through the building, their deep voices booming off the stone walls during the morning on worship days. He remembered staring lustily at the fiery-haired Bella, chuckling as Murdoch stumbled his way through the Chant, making errors in nearly every verse, and admiring the stoic way Ser Perth would stand in his gleaming set of chevalier armor that was more his personal trophy than his protection.

His mother should have been in there somewhere. She was there, in that Chantry, every day of her life. Sweeping, washing, cleaning, organizing, collecting alms and bringing food and drink to weary travelers.

Cain could only recall the flames. He stood, ten years old, at the foot of his father as the wood of the pyre burned brighter and brighter in the summer night's air. He stared at the fire, watching as the wreath of flame grew higher and higher, like curtains being pulled up around his mother's body. He could feel the grip of his father's hand on his shoulder. Mother Hannah wept as she recited the words of the Chant, her words stammering and garbled between quiet sobs she tried to choke back.

He watched until the flames died down and where once there was a body, hands folded in her lap, there was nothing more. His father had squeezed his shoulder and taken him home.

Cain pulled the knife back and laid it flat on the table.

He spun the vial of lyrium and placed it gently on the table, too.

The door cracked open. Cain slowly reached down to his side, where Duty lay on the floor. He moved slowly, quietly wrapping his fingers around the grip of the sword as the shadow stepped closer. In the dim of the moonlight, he could see the form as it crept nearer, tip-toeing across the floor.

"Anya."

Her head snapped to the side and she jumped in surprise. "Cain," she said, exhaling audibly. "I thought you'd be asleep."

She was dressed in one of her casual outfits from the road. It wasn't buttoned or laced up properly. It looked like she had just tossed it on to cross the hallway, he assumed. She had let her hair down from the braids and knots she had pinned earlier. Her brown locks had a slight wave from hours of being twisted against their natural state.

"My mind was racing," he said, grabbing the small candle on the table. He held it up toward Anya as she crept closer in the darkness. She touched her finger to the wick, a small bit of flame jumped to life. The candle cast orange light across the room.

Anya's eyes locked on the bottle of lyrium on the table and then at Cain's face. He held up his hand slightly and smiled, shaking his head. She sighed with relief.

"Why are you awake? What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I couldn't sleep either," she said. "Tomorrow we're across the sea. We're here. This is happening. I've been so filled with nerves ever since we stepped inside the gate."

Her hands were trembling, he could see. Her feet shifted side to side, almost as if she were pacing in place.

"If you're having second thoughts, it's not too late…"

"No, it's not that," Anya interrupted. She turned and took a step away from the table, then turned on her heel and stepped back. Her hands shook up and down like she was trying to shake the words out of herself.

"What's wrong Anya?" Cain said. "I've never seen you like this."

She shook her head slightly and paced again. "It's just…" she stopped and looked at Cain. "I lived my entire life in the Circle Tower. Now we're here. I know it's dangerous. I don't know if I'll survive. I don't know if you'll survive."

She looked at Cain, her eyes focusing on his face for a moment. "I'm not scared about that, though. I'm nervous, anxious, about you. About you and me."

She took a step back from Cain and reached up to her shoulders, tugging at strings behind her neck. She gave one a tug, pulling it out above her head. She rolled her shoulders forward, slumping the fabric off her chest pulled her arms back, letting the loose robe fall along her sides into a heap at the floor.

She folded her hands in front of her awkwardly and lifted her feet out of the lump of cloth on the floor.

Anya did not cover herself.

Cain did not look away.

"If this is our last night, I would spend it with you," she said.

Cain tapped his finger on the table and gazed upon Anya's fair skin, orange light and shadows moving across the curves of her body as the flame danced upon the candle. She stood up straighter, her hands no longer fidgeting before her. She moved her arms back, locking her hands behind her back. Her eyes stared at him, not with fear or lust or vulnerability. She stood bare before him, with confidence and surety.

Cain pushed himself up from the chair and stepped before her. He approached within a half a pace, but she did not move or flinch, except to lift her head slightly to keep her eyes locked to his. He looked back to her.

"Just before you came in, I was considering two options. In one hand, I held the lyrium."

_Submission. _

"In the other, I held the knife at my heart, prepared to end this suffering."

_Cowardice._

"Before, I might have taken either. What was done to me, what I have seen and what I have done, I cannot change that now," Cain said. "I choose to fight. I choose to struggle, because I know I will have you to give me strength when I am weak."

Cain lifted his left hand, brushing his fingers across Anya's cheek and pushing her hair behind her ear. He stepped forward, placing his forehead upon hers, sliding his left hand behind her head and his right hand into the small of her back.

He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, taking in her scent as he cradled her body close to his.

"If this is our last night," he said, lifting his head slightly from hers so he could look into her once more, "I would spend it with you."

He lowered his head, craning his neck to the side. Anya lifted on the balls of her feet, sliding her arms around his neck.

As their lips locked, Cain could feel the doubt fade.

All he could feel was Anya's breath, the movement of her tongue, the warmth of her body as it pressed against him. Cain could feel her hands squeeze, the way she leaned into him, exposed. Her breathing, her posture, the tension in her body had all changed in an instant.

The strength, fire and guardedness had all be stripped away. She was exposed, open. Cain had needed her, relied on her to carry him through. But he could feel it in her kiss, there was something deeper he had not noticed until this moment.

She needed him too.


	25. Chapter 25

**Twenty-five**

Arid flatland stretched all around her.

The sun hung huge and low in the sky, blasting heat upon the land. Just to the side, the dim outline of floating stones and black towers, always out of reach.

In the distance, a spire of black stone jutted miles into the sky, storm clouds spiraling around the summit, black clouds blinking with lightning. The rumble of thunder reverberated through the otherwise empty, flat desert around her.

Anya placed her hand over her brow to shield her eyes from the light.

This was new.

The Fade was always full of tricks.

A small wisp floated nearby, bouncing up and down, the small ball of light bobbing slowly next to her. "Is this your doing?" she asked it. Wisps could not speak, they were just the most basic coalescence of spirits, but they could create and they could feel. Some day they might form into spirits, or demons, but only if they could define their own nature. _Instructions._

"What will I find there?" she asked. _Ignorance. _The wisp didn't know. It was a builder, not the architect. She was dressed in a basic Circle robe, plain, cheap fabric like she had worn most of her life. It was familiar, easy pickings from her mind and her experience for the wisps to recreate.

"Whose realm is this?" That question frightened the wisp. _Anxiety. Fear. _Its light flickered, frazzled at the edges and it began to float away, moving quickly away from her. "Wait!" she shouted, but by the time she did, its energy flickered away and dissipated like fog burning away in the morning.

Anya had an idea who she might find.

The spire of rock looked miles away, but as she began to move forward toward it, the blank landscape around zipped past her, blurring at the corners of her vision. She took another step, her body lurching forward. The spire of rock might be fifty miles away, but here, she moved at incredible speed.

She began to run, her feet exploding across the dusty plain as everything around her melted to speed blur. Her vision tunneled, the spire rapidly growing larger and closer but always clear and in focus. The blazing sun darkened as she got closer, black stormclouds spreading wider and wider, spiraling outward from the summit and spreading across the sky.

In moments she was at the foot of the massive pillar of stone and when she turned her head, the dark clouds had covered all of the sky. Everything was dark, the thunder boomed mercilessly loud here and the flashes of lightning in the sky snapped every few seconds.

There was an opening at the base of the spire, an open cavern carved into the rock. She stepped through and immediately upon passing the threshold, she realized she was now atop the miles-high tower. The air was calm and quiet - completely silent, in fact - but she could see the clouds spinning around the summit, the lightning still flashing, but the thunder now silent. A single beam of sunlight was coming through the clouds, a white beam of light piercing the tempest.

The light shone down on Cain, wearing his full Templar regalia, his back turned to her, just as he had been in the first dream.

Her body suddenly tensed and she crouched slightly, opening her hands. This was all too similar, the last nightmare she had had on the Exalted Plains. She pushed her magic into her fingers, preparing herself. Spells were odd in the Fade, but she knew a little of how to control and shape the wild energy, if needed.

"Po!" she called out. "Show yourself! I know you're here!"

Silence.

Then the sound suddenly exploded, thunder cracking so loud Anya had to cover her ears. The sky pulsed with force and the wind began to tear across the summit, so strongly that it nearly knocked her down.

Cain lifted off the ground, spun in the air to face her. His face was blank, expressionless, lifeless. He stopped as he faced her, the wind still roaring around in cyclones around them. The hole in the sky closed, the light extinguishing as the clouds closed in. The darkness resettled.

Flames sprung to life at Cain's feet. The fire began to lick up his legs, burning up his body, scorching and blackening his flesh. Anya lowered her head as his skin began to bubble and melt away and she could feel the intensity of the heat of the fire that burned before her.

As the heat began to fade, she looked up, seeing only the blackened metal armor left, with flames burning inside them in the shape of a man. The wind stopped, silence returned and the empty plate mail dropped to the ground, clanging loudly as the only sound in the Fade.

"Are you frightened?"

Po was behind her, she knew, just from the sound of his voice. She quickly drew her magic into her hand and spun, firing a blast of lightning at him as her arm whipped around her body. The ball of lightning broke like hitting an invisible shield before him, spraying lighting in every direction.

The child shook his head. "You are obviously not frightened," he said.

"Why are you doing this? Why are you here?" Anya demanded, pulling another ball of lightning into her other hand. The first hadn't worked, but she poured more power into the second.

"I'm always here," Po said. "Don't worry. I'll always be with you, Anya."

She threw the second ball of lightning.

Anya jumped in bed, her left arm thrusting into the air mimicking the motion she had just made in the Fade.

Cain snapped awake.

Anya realized she was back in the room in the inn, the candle on the table was still burning dimly and she lay in the bed next to Cain, his flesh warm to her touch. She quickly placed her hand on his chest to calm him. "It's fine, just a nightmare."

That didn't calm him. Anya regretted her choice of words. Nightmares and mages usually meant trouble in the Circle. He was still a Templar deep down. "What happened?" he asked, sitting up in the bed. "The last time you had a nightmare, the camp got swarmed with corpses."

That was true, at least. She didn't feel anything odd this time though. No fluctuations in the normal magical energy, no strange premonitions, no alterations in her connection to the Fade. "It's nothing," she said as she pulled the blankets up to cover herself.

Cain wrapped his arm around her and planted a kiss on her forehead. She placed her head on his chest and could hear how quickly his heart was beating. His breathing was short and quick, too. She had startled him awake and his instinct had kicked in.

As usual, Anya felt nothing but calm.

"It's nearly morning," Cain said, looking at the way the moonlight had shifted through the window. "I hadn't intended to fall asleep like that. We need to get Dominic soon."

"Just stay here a little longer," Anya asked.

She closed her eyes, remembering the feeling of Cain's kiss, the feeling of his mouth upon her neck, the way his hands explored her body, sliding smoothly over her skin but firmly grasping her breasts or holding her hips.

Than had been pain initially as he entered her, but he moved slowly and patiently, responding to the squeeze of her hands on his body during the discomfort. But the pain had faded quickly, he wrapped his arms behind her neck and shoulders and she had given herself totally.

They had fallen asleep together, limbs tangled in the bed.

She felt at peace.

After a time, they had gotten out of the bed, dressed and Anya tip-toed across the hall back to her own room. She quickly washed in the basin they had provided and sorted through her pack. The statement piece she had worn yesterday wouldn't be necessary, so she folded it quickly and stuffed it in the bottom of the bag. They would be traveling by sea and the air would be damp and chill.

She pulled the long robe cut of the heavier imperial vestment cotton. Although she didn't care for the color, it was rich textile and would prefer a little more protection from the cold. She quickly slipped into the robe and grabbed jewelry, gold, amethyst, jet and a few yellow topazed to add a mix of colors. She clipped a thick gold choker at her neck, placed studs in her ears, slipped rings on all four fingers of her left hand and tossed a golden bangle at her right wrist.

Anya didn't know much about jewelry. It wasn't something women in the Circle had much of and she honestly had spent more time studying the nature of magic than she did the proper way to balance gems and precious metals on her. She was more familiar at which gems could be ground to dust and used in potions than which ones went with what outfits.

She lifted her staff, spinning the long pole in her hands and around her sides to practice with the balance again. Her previous staff had been nothing special, more or less standard issue from the Circle, but this one was intricately designed, gilded and weighted differently. She didn't know what the Enchanters at Skyhold had done, but she found it much easier to draw magic with this staff. Perhaps they had worked complex focusing spells into the crystal, such things were possible, she knew.

Anya quickly grabbed the cosmetics, tracing around her eyes with the black pencil and quickly painting a little of the smokey grey shadow above her eyes, just to darken them. She didn't have time - or care - to spend more time on it than that.

By the time she returned to Cain's room, Dominic was already waiting there.

"I'm _not _staying," Dominic said forcefully as she stepped inside.

"I wasn't asking," Cain said. "That is an order."

Dominic stepped up closer to Cain and shoved him back with two hands. "That's bullshit Cain. I'm not some kid! I can handle myself."

"Lina's notes say there are hundreds of Red Templars, at least," Cain said, waving the small scrap of paper in the air. "That doesn't even say anything about darkspawn. Or blood mages. This is not some story that your old knight told you. I've seen too many young men like you put on that armor and think they're invincible. You know where they are now? All dead."

Dominic turned and saw Anya behind him. "Are you making her stay, too?"

Cain shook his head.

Dominic looked back and forth between the two of them, exasperated. He was struggling to find the words to find the argument. Anya watched as his hand moved toward his sword but then jerked back. He knew that wasn't the way.

"So that's it?" Dominic said spitefully. "All of the traveling, all of the training, so you can send me back to Skyhold when we're at the gate? Why? Why did you even bother bringing me along?"

Cain didn't have an answer for that.

"Dominic should come," Anya said, inserting herself into the conversation. The young man's head snapped around to her. Cain glared. "Raphael is expecting all three of us. He'll be suspicious if only two of us show up."

"It's a risk, but worth taking to keep Dominic safe," Cain said.

"And then what?" Dominic said, quickly finding a foothold in the argument. "I stay here? This place is swarming with Red Templars too. Or travel back on my own? Orlais is too dangerous to go alone."

"The Inquisition army should be only a few days behind," Cain said. "You could join Lina and Harper and travel back."

Anya stepped up behind Dominic, placing her hand on his shoulder. "Cain, no," she said. "I know you want to protect Dominic, but he agreed to this mission the same as you or me. He's not a child. We'll need him."

"I know my limits," Dominic said. "I'll do whatever needs to be done. If it costs me my life, it's a price I'm ready to pay."

Cain was ignoring Dominic, looking at Anya. His face clearly said he disagreed. But Anya kept her gaze locked in on him, her face soft and pleading. His jaw loosened and he retreated. "He can come," Cain said. "I don't want you playing hero."

"Understood," Dominic said with a confident nod. "Thank you, Cain. I won't let you down."

"You shouldn't be worried about me," he answered. "Don't let yourself down or you'll end up dead."

Cain grabbed his pack off the table, shouldering the bag and headed for the door. Anya turned to follow but Dominic grabbed her hand as she tried to turn away.

"Thank you," he said simply.

Anya looked at his face. He wasn't much younger than her, but his eyes always looked so wide. His curly strawberry blonde hair was a moppish mess atop his head. But he wore the Templar armor with such pride and he stood confidently in it.

This meant everything to him, she knew. There was adventure and danger, yes, but what the Inquisition had given him was purpose. That's what he valued most, Anya thought.

Dominic was something, he was doing something, trying to leave the world better.

Anya wished she had that same vigor. She had left the Circle, but as she wandered into the world all she felt was lost. She had no one, no where to go, no place in this world. She didn't share the spirit of rebellion some mages had. Likewise she didn't want to bend and just submit again to the Chantry.

The Circle just was. It was her reality for years, her home, her routine and her life. Without the walls of Kinloch Hold, the daily lessons and community of the mages and the careful supervision of the Templars, she just felt so out of place.

Cain was a Templar once, he had experienced that similar world as her. It made him relatable, they had common ground.

But Dominic had lived a life completely foreign to her. He had parents. He had a sibling. He had a home. He could sail off on the sea or wander into the woods. He had lived in a community of people who were bound together by a common purpose and need for one another, not because they had all be corralled into one place and forced to live there.

She had come from Denerim, the Templars told her, but she was so young at the time she didn't remember anything about it. She must have had parents, but she never knew their names, she couldn't remember their faces. They had never written or tried to find her while she lived in the tower.

Then the darkspawn destroyed the capital. If she had parents once, they were probably dead now. But they had always been dead to her. She had wondered before at why they never tried to find her. She knew they must have been ashamed of her. Magic was a curse, an embarrassment. To have a mage child was a black mark upon a family.

Cain knew that too. His three older sisters were all mages. He was the only one not afflicted.

And then there was Dominic. He hadn't even met a mage until joining the Inquisition. He had the world at his fingertips and he knew as little of it as she did. He wanted it. To Anya, there was only indifference.

She envied him.

"Just stay safe," Anya replied. "I don't think I could forgive myself if something happened to you," she said.

* * *

Harper slipped back into the room.

"The agents have boarded the ship and are on their way," she said. "We should leave, quickly. We've been here too long as it is."

Lina was already burning papers in the hearth and haphazardly stuffing clothes and gear into a bag. She had already intended on making a quick exit from this place. There were too many eyes on them all the time, suspicious glances from Templars and townsfolk. Mont-de-glace wasn't like the other cities where people looked to her for entertainment or looked with hungry eyes.

There was distrust and suspicion here and Lina couldn't shake the feeling of impending danger.

"You won't have to tell me twice," Lina said as she pulled the string on the overstuffed pack. It was a bit cumbersome, but they would be quick. Once they were a half-day out of Mont-de-glace, she could unpack it and do a more organized job.

"A mission well done," Harper said, pulling her belt of knives from under the bed and belting them at her waist. She lifted the small crystal up. "Now we just rendezvous with the army and wait for the signal from Anya."

"Hope it's soon," Lina said. She hefted the pack over her shoulder. "I'm ready."

The floorboards in the hallway creaked.

Both women fell silent instantly, listening as the footsteps got closer. Lina slowly placed the pack down on the floor to free her hands. Harper placed a finger at her lips and motioned for Lina to be alert.

The floor squeaked, a high pitch whine from the board that was just before their door. They had the last room in the hall, requested it specifically. Being in a corner meant there was only one way in. It also only meant one way out, but a cornered animal was always the most dangerous, Harper had said.

Both spies stood completely still, listening. It was quiet on the other side.

Harper slowly moved her hands to her belt, placing her hands on her daggers and took one step to the side, toward the door. A sudden sound. Heat.

"Shit!" Harper shouted and dove to the side.

The door exploded into splinters, flames spilling past the broken wood into the room. Lina instinctively fell to the floor, covering her head as flames of tongue and splinters blasted into the room.

The walls were already burning. Lina rolled toward the bed, grabbing her bow. Harper was up on her feet with her daggers pulled, crouched low to the ground and staring down the doorway.

Through the smoke and wreath of flame, a single mage stepped through. Her olive skin glistened in the heat, the flowing, veil-like vestment she wore trailed behind her as she entered, but untouched by the flame. In her left hand she carried a golden staff, shining brightly with magic.

Harper darted toward the door, low to the ground, her daggers behind her like two wings, ready to strike. The mage lifted her right hand toward Harper, flipping her fingers up and then twisting her hand as if she were turning a doorknob.

Harper stopped as if she had run into a wall, her body jerking suddenly. The daggers flew out of her hands and skittered across the floor.

"Here you are," the mage said. She lifted her arm slightly and Harper began to lift off the ground, floating as if she was being picked up around the waist. Her arms and legs were limp behind her. Harper screamed.

Lina felt the bow in her hand, but she was frozen in place.

"You thought you could sneak around unnoticed, did you? Scurrying in the shadows like a filthy rat," the mage said. "You and your little friend, singing songs so innocently in the inn, asking a lot of questions. Too many questions."

Harper screamed again as her body jerked in the air. "You're mistaken," she forced out between her teeth.

"_Don't," _the mage growled, quickly clenching her fingers into a fist. Harper cried out as her arms and legs bent backward, twisting behind her back, sinew and bone audibly snapping as her body bent into a ball. "You were looking for the Red Sun. Here we are."

The mage began to uncurl her fingers from her first, moving slowly as if each were moving a very heavy weight. Harper screamed, so loudly and so wildly that bolts of terror shot through Lina. Harper's body shook in air, vibrating. The mages fingers opened a little wider and Harper's screams suddenly stopped.

Her flesh exploded, blood pulling up out of her body into the air in once forceful jerk. The droplets of red blood flew into the air, piercing through Harper's body like shrapnel, ripping her to pieces. The small beads hung in the air, suspended above her body. The mage waved her staff slightly to the side and Harper's tattered body hit the floor with a thud.

The mage turned her head toward Lina.

Terror changed to panic.

_Run!_

Lina shoved hard against the floor, bolting toward the window. She curled, leading with her shoulder and slammed through the glass.

Drops of blood exploded through the wall, flying like a thousand arrows around her. The shards of glass seemed suspended in air, Lina fell so slowly as she covered her face, blood tearing past her, red hot and as sharp as daggers ripping through her flesh.

She hit the ground in the narrow alley, her feet landing hard and she came down on her hip, shards of glass and wounds of the blood magic stabbing her fiercely in the side. The mage was standing in the gaping hole in the side of the inn, the wall had been torn open, burning, wood splintered, bricks crumbling.

Lina pushed herself to her feet. She was a bloody mess, she could feel pain from a hundred wounds. But the mage raised her staff and Lina's body went numb, the pain pushed out as she surged with fear and adrenaline.

It was Halamshiral all over.

She bolted.

The alley was narrow and she ran, flying past empty crates, barrels, zagging past wet spots, brooms that had fallen and buckets left outside doors. The walls blurred as she sprinted. She could hear a whoosh behind her. She turned hard to the left, slamming through a slightly ajar door, throwing the wood off the hinges.

Flames erupted in the alley, fire spilling into the open portal. Lina fell. The family inside the home screamed and ducked for cover. She scraped across the floor, using her hands and feet to scurry back upright like a hare pushing itself away from a predator.

She shoved out the front door, into the street. The waterfront was to the left. The gates to the right. She turned hard, keeping low to the ground and close to the wall and she sprinted. People were flooding into the street at the flames and commotion. Guards were shouting. A Templar pointed at her. She twisted right into an alley.

Lina shoved a woman to the ground in her way, hopped over her toddler. She grabbed a drain pipe, scuttling up the wall. She twisted and kicked through a second-floor window. A husband and wife popped up from in bed. She knocked over a table, kicked a chair over and pushed out their door to a balcony on the opposite side. She leapt down, feet landing softly in the next alley. She pushed left. There were soldiers. Turning right. Through another door.

More flames. The mage was burning the entire city. She ran through a kitchen.

The memories flooded forward. She could hear the horns of chevaliers, the clanking of armor, the sound of heavy hoofbeats pounding the street. She remembered the sound of shattering porcelain as she stomped her lord's face to pieces. She could smell the iron stink of blood as she drove her knife into Jevan's gut, taste the crystalline sugar that pervaded the peach pie she pilfered from the counter.

Her breath came in and out, perfectly measured, her heart pounding in her chest, her legs and arms moving in automatic strides, eyes darting all around looking for passages, doors, windows, watching for soldiers. She locked onto points of notice in the blur of her sprint, indistinct figures becoming instantly clear.

Harper was dead. Destroyed. Torn apart with a spell right before her eyes. She recalled the look of horror and agony on Harper's face as her blood boiled out from under her flesh, pulling into the air in some vile, wicked magic.

There was more shouting. She could smell smoke. She slid between a narrow passage as a cart blocked up and alley, leaving a smear of her own blood on the wall. The gates were close.

She could outrun this threat. She had to survive.

For the first time in her life, others were relying on her.

She could feel a blast of heat behind her, the roar of another fireball. Lina sprinted forward, the flames licking at her heels. She burst out of the end of the alley, fire rolling behind her.

Lina ran, pushing her body to the limit.

The flames overtook her.

* * *

Mont-de-glace was burning.

"What's happening?" Dominic asked as he looked at the flames and smoke rolling off the rooftops of the building.

They stood at the back of the ship, a small boat, no oars but a wide lateen sail that caught good wind even tonight. The boat swayed slightly as it cut the water, but the sea was calm. Cain and Anya were holding onto the rail for balance - Anya looking a little green at the chop - but Dominic stood solid, his feet familiar to the swaying of a deck below his feet.

The fire looked like it had started near the docks, a blinding flash as red fire spilled high into the sky and a rumble that shook the midnight air. Had it been the inn? Was Lina in danger?

Raphael du Valen stood with them. There were only a few other Templars, no other mages, on the ship. They had said that ferries only left a few times a month, but the boat was hardly loaded. Two of the Templars who were waiting when they arrived were wearing red lyrium crystals at their necks, their eyes glowing with red rings around the iris.

The bald Templar chuckled to himself, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched the flames licking high into the night sky, casting orange shadows over the waterfront. "I'd wager that's Carissa," Raphael said. "She had been worried about Inquisition spies getting too close. I'd say she's found some."

Dominic must have blanched at the thought. "_Lina!" _he thought, screaming and hoping she was OK. Anya shifted awkwardly on her feet. Cain stood still, leaning over the rail, watching the fire as it consumed the city.

"That's a lot of collateral damage to root out spies," Anya said, trying her best to put on that bitchy tone she had been practicing.

Raphael laughed. "Subtlety is not her strong suit," he said. "Mont-de-glace has run its course, anyway. I expect we'll be making landfall soon, all we need is soft shores to put up ships against. As long as she doesn't burn the ships in harbor, she can put the rest of the city to the torch, truly."

Cain stood up slightly. "Is this the new Chantry you're intending to build? One that lets mages loose to burn down an entire city?" He turned toward Raphael, a hard look on his face. "Do you think the people will stand by and accept that?"

Raphael rose to the challenge. "We're at war, Wygard. There are casualties in war." The Templar did not flinch, Dominic noted, he spoke with conviction of his cause, an inspiring tone to his voice although Dominic was horrified by the destruction unfolding before him. "The people already believe in our righteous cause even though they do not know it yet. And they will come to follow because the weak always will follow the strong. When we overthrow the broken Chantry, they will accept us because they must."

Cain backed down, returning the rail, brushing off Raphael with a dismissive snort.

"Spoken like a true visionary," Anya said with an approving nod.

Raphael smiled. "My thanks, Lady Anya. You are as kind as you are lovely."

Raphael clapped Dominic on the shoulder. "This one has some sea legs, doesn't he?" he commented. " It will be a few hours before we arrive at our destination. Enjoy the light show, in the meanwhile."

Another flash filled the sky, another pillar of flames flying into the sky. Even from this distance, Dominic could hear the bells of the Chantry ringing in alarm. Raphael took his leave, heading toward the front of the ship.

Somewhere in the portrait of flames and smoke, Dominic hoped Lina and Harper had made it out safe. Maybe there had been other people suspected of spying, some other person the Red Sun had wrongly suspected.

But the lump in his throat told him otherwise. They were dead.

Dominic's hand wrapped around the grip of his sword as he stared at the dancing flames in the distance.

"_I'll avenge you, Lina."_


	26. Chapter 26

**Twenty-six**

Penitence was tucked into the landscape, white walls nestled among the red stone at the end of the canyon.

The sun scorched, with no shade to dim the midday light. The air was burning, the pounding rays of the sun mixed with open, stinking vents that stretched deep into the earth. The volcanic cracks spewed sulfur and ash up from underground, the landscape seemed to vibrate with low tremors under their feet and the air waved with the sheen of heat.

If not for the large cans of water, they would have surely perished along the trek.

"I am required at the fortress," Raphael said as they had stepped off the ship at Sulfur Point, a small port that was little more than a few wooden docks jutting off the stony shore. There were no buildings here, nothing to identify the place except two large, red flags planted near the shore. The flags were badly tattered and faded, exposed to years of sun and wind.

The Templar took a mount, a hardy dracolisk that Cain had only heard stories about and seen pictures in books. It was about the size of an average horse, thinner and more wiry, but with longer legs. It must have been a sprinting beast, quick and with good endurance, built to survive the powerful heat and aridity of the Sea of Ash. It's scales were an orangish-red, small and leathery like a wyvern, a barbed tail that was as much a weapon as the long, yellowed fangs jutting from its jaw.

Next to him, the olive-skinned mage was already atop her own dracolisk, black with yellow specks across its scales, smaller but more powerfully built. She wore a light, veiled hood over her head to shield her from the sun, but her clothing was minimal. She wore a beaded top that covered her breasts but little else, small ringed sleeves wrapped just slightly around her upper arms. She wore a short, wispy skirt with beads and crystal and flat sandals that wrapped and tied up her calf with cords.

She was Antivan, clearly, and was no stranger to heat. Her flesh was marked with some spiraling tattoos in places, in colors of black, red and indigo. Cain could not comprehend their meaning, but he recognized the script as that used by runekeepers. Perhaps she had bound runes to her own flesh, he wondered.

She wore dark charcoal around her eyes to dim the sun and her coal hair was tied under the hood. She wore gold ring at her fingers and in her ears, and a jeweled pendant hanging from her belly button. Her golden staff came to a fine point at the end, honed sharp as any spear. The head was fashioned into two snakes, devouring each others tails, a giant red gem in the middle.

Carissa Antierra smelled of smoke, of the fiery hell she had unleashed in Mont-de-glace the night before.

A small sloop had sped past them in the night, the boat bouncing quickly over the sea past the ferry. The mage had stood on the deck, raising a hand to Raphael as it passed nearby and then flew away into the darkness.

Cain wanted to cut her down now, a pre-emptive strike before she even knew what was happening. But their mission lie ahead in the fortress so he swallowed his hate.

"There is plenty of water, so you should have no trouble surviving the trek. Do watch out for the wildlife. The summer sun has made them quite hungry," Raphael said. "If you survive, we will welcome you at Penitence."

The other Red Templars remained on the ship, leaving only Cain, Anya and Dominic on the shore. "I thought there would be others?" Anya said, looking over her shoulder as the boat pushed off the shore, not even waiting for the Templar and blood mage to depart.

"Not everyone is worthy of joining us," Raphael said. "There are others at Penitence and more spread out across the mainland. More are not needed, beyond you."

Raphael pulled at the reins of the dracolisk, eliciting a shriek from it as it pulled its head to resist. "We await your arrival," he said and rode off, Carissa's beast in step beside him.

They looked as the sail of the ferry grew smaller behind them, the shapes of Raphael and Carissa disappearing in the dust to the north.

Anya let out a long sigh when they were alone. "This doesn't feel right," she said.

"Agreed," Cain said.

Nothing about the last day had felt right. The common room in the inn, the burning of Mont-de-glace, the passage across the sea and then the dropoff at Sulfur Point. Everything felt off. Cain couldn't shake the feeling of incredible danger.

"Not like we can turn back now," Dominic said, looking at the docks behind them. The seawater here was red with rust and stank of sulfur too. There were no settlements to seek out, no way to get back with the only boat having gone.

Cain supposed they could have waited there for hours, hoping for the next ship to show up, try to fight their way through the crew and head back to the mainland. But he had no idea when that ship would come. It could be days. He suspected if they didn't arrive at Penitence before nightfall, Raphael, Carissa or someone else would come looking for them.

There was no way to go but forward.

They had walked for hours. The Path of Penitence was little more than a path carved into the dirt about ten feet wide, marked every couple hundred feet with stones on either side so that its travelers wouldn't lose their way. Many places on the path had been covered with dust and ash so that the stones underfoot couldn't be seen any more. If not for the road markers, a person might wander off the route, deep into the wastes.

Anya kept their water chilled with a little ice magic and they tried to ration what they drank, despite the constantly pounding sun. Cain was roasting under the heavy Templar armor. Kirkwall had mild weather most of the year, some warmer days in the summer, but nothing like this. He wondered how Templars in Antiva or Rivain survived the weather, much less the duties of their position.

They passed the first of large marble pillars, the Chant carved deeply into the stone. Cain pulled out the prayerbook, checking the first entry and matching it to the pillar:

_The one who repents, who has faith,_

_Unshaken by the darkness of the world,_

_She shall know true peace._

_Transfigurations 10_

There were five more to go, after this one, according to the prayerbook.

"Should we stop and pray?" Dominic asked.

Cain folded the book and slipped it back into his pocket. He looked at the white marble, the smooth stone slightly worn by wind but still in good shape. How long had this pillar been here? He guessed it wasn't the first one to have been located here. Nothing could stand the harsh conditions for that long.

He remembered what Cassandra had said: "_Every few years, the Chantry solicits volunteers from the sisterhood to make the pilgrimage to clear the path of the deceased, bring supplies to the fortress cleanse the temple within. They do not return. When they have completed their duties, they pray before the shrine of Andraste and give themselves willingly to the flames."_

Cain wondered how many of the faithful had willingly given their lives to protect these secrets, this trash bin of the Chantry, where they discarded those who didn't meet their standard. The Chantry preached salvation, but it could not even save those within its own ranks, choosing rather to maroon its problems in a faraway land where they could perish without anyone knowing.

"No," Cain answered. "This is a wicked place. We would should not linger here."

The sun was beginning to set when they finally came upon Penitence. In the last mile, the path wound into a canyon carved between two rising cliffs of red stone as the land had elevated slightly from the coast. The rock face wound upward hundreds of feet, shooting more drastically up in the distance. The small fortress had been built into the cliffs at the very end of the canyon, small white wall in the cliff about twenty feet off the ground, no visible gates that Cain could see.

As they approached, they got their first glimpse of the army being built here.

"Maker, what have they done here?" Anya gasped.

Giant red lyrium crystals jutted from the earth.

As they approached closer, Cain could see the crystals stood in carefully aligned rows on either side of the path. They looked like they had been deliberately grown, as if a farmer were growing wheat or corn in a field. As the wind blew, Cain could smell the scent of red lyrium, feeling that acrid bitterness on his tongue and fire in his lungs as if he were breathing in smoke.

He turned his head and coughed, his head swimming. Anya's hands were on his shoulders in a moment. "Cain, are you all right?"

He coughed again, covering his mouth and his nose and turning his head away from the breeze. "It's so powerful," he said, turning his eyes to look at the bright red crystals that glowed as they drank in the sunlight. There was so much of it, thousands of times more than in the mine in the Hinterlands. He had heard rumors that parts of the Emprise du Lion had been overrun with a wild growth of red lyrium, but he hadn't anticipated it might look anything like this.

He felt nauseous.

There were Templars patrolling the columns on the left, twisted soldiers, knights and horrors pacing back and forth down the aisles of red lyrium. Cain had watched as one large crystal seemed to shift and move, only to realize that it was alive. There was a Templar in the middle of it. He had fled Haven before the Herald engaged the red lyrium juggernaut, but he had heard the story. A golem-like creature, more stone than man anymore.

The juggernaut towered more than twice the size of a normal man, the razor-sharp crystals having totally overrun his body. It dragged one arm that had twisted into something akin to a giant maul, so heavy and mutated that what was left of the man attached to it could not lift it.

On the right, there were darkspawn. The hurlocks and genlocks all showed the same signs of red lyrium corruption, red crystals growing out of their dark and corrupted flesh. Unlike the Templars, most of them kept their shape except for the growth of crystals on them. None had been twisted like the deformed knights or the horrific juggernaut.

The fields of lyrium lined the road, column after column of crystals growing, some creeping up the sides of the canyon like vines growing up a wall. The ones closet to the road were by far the largest, while those farther away were smaller, some just blooming into small clusters in the stone and sand.

Underneath the shadow of the fortress at the end of the dead-end road, stood Raphael.

"Welcome to Penitence," he declared, stretching his arms out at his side. "This is the birthplace of the new Chantry."

Cain was choking back coughs as they passed between the monumental crystals of lyrium. Some of the biggest had to be at least thirty feet tall he guessed. The shade of the stone was blocking out the sun, but the heat coming off the crystals made the approach to the fortress just as hot and unpleasant.

He forced himself to place each foot in front of the other, trying to focus on walking a straight line while keeping his head up and forward. Cain felt dizzy, he wanted to spit to try to cleanse the bitter taste from his lips, but his mouth had become so dry he couldn't have anyway.

Yet Cain could feel his muscles tingling with strength. The part of him fueled by lyrium was being filled with the fumes, he could feel that pulse of power deep inside him that he drew upon in his times of need.

"You're looking ill, Ser Wygard," Raphael commented, watching as Cain stumbled forward. Anya grabbed him at the shoulders to help steady him and Dominic stepped up to his other side. Neither seemed to be so badly affected.

"The red lyrium is … overpowering," Cain said in response.

Raphael chuckled. "You're not the first," he said. "We've had several men fall to the dirt before even making the gate. It does seem to take a toll on the more seasoned Templars."

Dominic was sweating and breathing heavily too. He might not have been a Templar, but the heat, exertion and spiraling lyrium was taking a toll even on him.

"Come, come," Raphael said motioning to the cavern. "We'll be out of it soon enough. The air is much fairer in the fortress, I promise."

There were no gates upon the ground, just a small crevice that led into the cliff, concealed in the shadow and the folds of rock that it was barely noticeable from afar.

They walked for a minute before Raphael stopped before a non-descript section of the wall. He touched the stone, tracing a symbol in rock that alighted with the slight glow of lyrium. As the rune in the stone lit, the rock face itself shifted and slid away, revealing a narrow staircase hewed into the stone.

"This place is truly a marvel," Raphael said. "It is a shame the Chantry chose to waste such innovation."

As they came to the top of the narrow stair, which wound deeper into the cliff before cutting back toward the canyon, they came upon the open air and their first sight of Penitence.

It was a small fort, built into the narrow cliff, a short white wall and a strong, steel gate. There were no towers around the wall and no gatehouse to speak of but just a single short keep and a cropping of small buildings within. There were several shrines set up in the courtyard, places for prayer and reflection. This was a place of banishment, after all, a person sent here was expected to do nothing else but repent, attempt to survive and eventually die, Cain recalled.

Behind them, another cavern led deeper into the cliff, alight with a red glow and pulsing with heat from inside the stone. Cassandra had mentioned that acolytes gave themselves to the flame after completing their duty here. There must have been open vents deeper within, molten rock flowing like rivers underground.

There were Red Templar archers patrolling the walls, as well as few uncorrupted Templars and mages conversing or lounging in the yard. Raphael noticed Cain looking at them and chimed in. "Red lyrium is not necessary for all of our recruits," he explained. "Most of our mages and Templars are spread across Orlais, recruiting, preparing. We are preparing the army here for the eventual strike."

"Why are they not given the lyrium?" Dominic asked.

Raphael just smiled but did not answer. "In due time, lad. In due time."

He led them into the central building, calling it a keep was generous. It was slightly taller than the other buildings and made of stone, with a heavy wooden door at the front. Inside there was little more than more shrines, some tables and chair, writing desks and a collection of books in multiple shelves spread across the back wall. It reminded Cain more of an abbey, where the Chantry might transcribe texts or prepare new writings to help spread the Chant of Light. This was no fortress.

The blood mage Carissa Antierra was inside waiting for them. Two Red Templars at the door shut it as they entered and Raphael stepped forward to join Carissa.

"Well then, here we are," Raphael said. "I promised you all the Red Sun if you would travel on faith."

The Templar stretched his hands out slightly to his sides, an offering, a gesture a host might make when welcoming guests to their home.

"Here I am."


	27. Chapter 27

**Twenty-seven**

Anya might have guessed.

She was hardly impressed with Raphael.

He was no Uldred. He was no Archdemon. He hardly even struck her as imposing enough to give the stern-faced Knight Commander Greagoir a run.

"You?" Anya said, crossing her arms. She eyed Carissa cautiously. She was a dangerous blood mage, far more imposing and dangerous than Raphael. She would choose her words carefully. The building was much too small to get into a firefight, one she was confident she could not win against the blood mage. She had seen the handiwork of the Antivan upon Mont-de-glace. "But you're just a Templar. Why would they follow you?"

Raphael laughed, looking at Carissa and smiling. "I'm wounded, my lady. They follow me because I have a vision, I have conviction and I have the right upon my side," he said. "But if nothing else, they follow because of this."

Raphael raised his palm, pointing the flat of his hand at Cain. His hand began to glow with an aura of blue, a small field of energy forming around his wrist and his fingers, spreading out slightly.

Anya looked at the light puzzled. She reached out to the ether, feeling for it. It was not mana, not a spell. He was no mage. It wasn't anti-magic, like Cain had so often used, either. It was like nothing she had felt or seen before, there was no tendril of energy she could feel out.

Cain screamed.

He clawed the air wildly, his arms flailing as he tore at his armor. His skin had broken out in sweat almost instantly and flesh turned red. The light grew fiercer and Cain's body locked, his muscles and joints seizing, his face twisted in agony. He cried out, unable to gather the strength to fully scream or to move, unable to do anything except to endure the pain.

"What are you doing to him!" Anya demanded. She reached back for her staff, but before her hand could reach the rod, she could feel paralysis gripping her arms, seeing Carissa with staff in hand, entropic energy holding her still.

"Seeker…" Cain struggled out between grunts of agony. His neck twisted and he forced out a scream, his face full of horror.

"Yes, very good," Raphael said, twisting his fingers, causing Cain to grunt more loudly. "Templars always seem to know, but never until it's too late." He raised his other hand, pointing his palm at Dominic, the same blue light forming. But when the teen did not twist in writhing pain, Raphael chuckled. "This one isn't even a Templar."

Dominic grabbed his sword and charged forward, the ruse thrown off in mere seconds. Before he could cross three steps toward Raphael, there was a flash of red light. His sword-arm jerked violently, a sickening popping noise filling the air. He cried out, his sword fell out of his now limp hand and he fell to a knee, clutching his shoulder with his good hand.

Carissa smirked to herself, returning her gaze to Anya. The blood mage had pulled his arm out of the joint, barely moving at all. Anya could feel the sudden pulse of blood magic that had washed across the room, felt her own body jolt as the Antivan wrapped her magic around his blood and pulled.

"Now, let's not try any more of that, shall we?" Raphael said to Dominic, who retreated backward, scooting across the floor still holding onto his wounded shoulder. His lips pursed in a grimace, the young lad surely experiencing a pain like he never had before.

"Please, release your hold on him," Anya begged, looking at Cain again. His eyes were clenched closed. She had heard stories of the Seekers. Their intense training gave them powers against both mage and Templar, different from the arts practiced by either. They could not be controlled by blood magic and many gained manipulation over the flow of mana or the latent powers of lyrium.

She guessed that Raphael was controlling the lyrium in Cain's blood, burning it or wracking it inside his flesh. That would make sense as to why he could not control Dominic too. Dominic wasn't a Templar. He had never ingested lyrium.

"So doting, this one," Raphael said to Carissa. "Should I release him, dear?"

The blood mage shrugged her right shoulder. "They're pathetic. Not a threat, just like the rest of the Inquisition."

Raphael lowered his hand, releasing the hold on Cain. He collapsed to the ground, falling to his knees and pressing his hands against the ground, panting wildly as if he had just come out of pitched battle. He spat, steaming blood dripping from his lips, leaving sanguine stains on the stone floor before him.

The paralysis around Anya abated too and she crouched to Cain's side. "Cain! Cain, are you OK?" She felt bad to ignore Dominic and his shattered shoulder, but a joint could be reset. What had happened to Cain, she didn't even know. The intensity of anguish on his face was beyond anything she had ever seen.

"I'll survive," he forced out. "He burns the lyrium in my blood, like fire under my skin."

He was panting, more blood dripping from between his lips, dripping from his nose and leaking out of his ears. It smelled burnt, scorched metal like standing next to the forge. She placed her hand on his forehead, channeling some light healing energy into him, trying to calm and soothe him. She didn't know if her spells could really help the injuries he had sustained, but she had to at least try.

Raphael held his right forearm and rolled his wrist, looking rather pleased with himself. "That is merely a taste," he said. "Many Seekers have the gift, some can use it to kill, if necessary. And it's not just effective on Templars either."

Anya could see his lips turn into a smile just before he raised his hand again. In an instant, she could feel her blood inside her boiling, an incredible pressure and pain in her heart as if she had been stabbed between the ribs with a hot iron. Her fingers felt like she had grabbed a red-hot cauldron, her arms and chest burned as if they had tied her to a stake in the middle of a fire.

She couldn't move under the pressure, struggling just to breath as each breath felt as if she was pulling in chemicals and flame instead of air. She tried to scream, but had no voice.

"Enough!" she could hear Cain yelling, forcing himself shakily to his feet. He wobbled, barely even able to support himself as Anya writhed on the ground.

Raphael relaxed his hand and the pain subsided as quickly as it had come on. Anya curled into a ball on the floor, her hands cradling her face, frantically touching her flesh to make sure it was still there and hadn't melted away. Her fingers trembled with anxiety, her body screaming signals to run but she could not move.

What she didn't feel was the fear that she knew should be there.

"That dose of lyrium a mage takes during her Harrowing can sit latent for decades," Raphael said proudly, again rolling his wrist. "For the more senior mages, it's sometime a struggle to find it there, but for the young, freshly Harrowed ones, well, you might as well be a Templar."

"You obviously know who we are," Cain said, still wavering on his feet. "We are Inquisition, true. I was appointed to investigate the spread of red lyrium. It led us here. We hoped to deceive you, that I may assess a threat and return a report to my superiors. That is all."

Anya knew what was happening. She would have protested, but her body still ached and smoldered. She couldn't move, much less speak.

"Of course," Carissa said. "It was you in the lagoon on the Storm Coast. You killed Etienne. He was a promising recruit, one I was upset to lose."

Cain nodded, trying to straighten although his legs were still trembling. He swayed from side to side, trying not to fall. More blood dripped from his left ear, cascading down his neck.

"These two serve under my command. I would have come alone, but we knew you were interested in mages," Cain said. "I am in no position to beg anything of you, but I ask, as one man who serves Holy Andraste and Maker, to please, let them go. Spare them and accept my surrender in their place."

Raphael and Carissa exchanged glances and then the Seeker laughed. He pressed his hands together, smiling and bowed slightly, mockingly. "A noble gesture, indeed," he said. "But as you said, you are in a position to ask nothing of me. If I let them go, they will just scurry back to your Inquisition amassing outside Mont-de-glace and bring them here."

Anya sat up, her chest still feeling like it was going to explode. The Red Sun knew more of their plans than she expected. She had honestly convinced herself the ruse might work, but it had never stood a chance. They knew everything before the three had even entered Mont-de-glace.

"Besides," Raphael continued. "This is Penitence. The conditions are brutal. Nothing is given easily. Survival itself is a challenge. True, it has been easier since we seized control of the ports in Mont-de-glace, but I did not thrive here for years by wasting assets."

"Years?" Cain questioned. "The Right Hand of the Divine said there has only been one failed Seeker sent here in recent years. His mind was damaged during his training."

"Ser Guian de Chereau, yes, he arrived in the Sea of Ash about three years ago," Raphael said. "Pentaghast, is it, these days? I have heard stories of her. Saved the Divine from a dragon attack years back. She's with this Inquisition now? Hmmm, funny how far the world has fallen apart.

"But she would not know me. I am but a relic, long exiled, long assumed dead, but yet I live. Indeed, I have been here for nigh on forty years, while the Chantry rots from wounds that have festered for centuries," Raphael said.

"Impossible," Anya said, lifting herself to her feet, pushing heavily off her staff to balance herself. Although she held the weapon in hand, Carissa regarded her disinterestedly. Anya could not fight even if she wanted to. Her body ached and whatever Raphael had done to her had disrupted her connection to the Fade. She could feel the mana swirling on the other side, but she could not touch it.

"Blood magic is an incredible gift and an incredible tool," Carissa interrupted. "The Chantry suppresses what it does not understand. They worry about mages controlling the body. But when you understand the blood, not even time itself can stand against you. Surely you should realize this."

She stared at Anya.

"I'm not a blood mage," Anya growled.

"You're lying," the blood mage bit back.

"I am _not," _she said again, gripping her staff tightly.

Raphael sighed. "Ladies, please, I don't have the patience for your bickering." He nodded toward Cain. "Plenty of blood. Just put her to the test."

Raphael lifted his hand, again locking Cain's body as the man grunted in pain.

Carissa smiled, closing her eyes and lifting her hand toward Cain. The blood still dripping from his mouth and ears beckoned to her call, droplets shaking and lifting off his flesh, pulling into a small ball in the air before his face.

"Now, pay attention, lady Anya, this is important," Raphael said. "You came here wanting to find out how I build this army. I will show you. It's quite simple really.

"Changing a Templar with red lyrium has its advantages, but the transformation is not subtle," Raphael said, staring at Cain. "I couldn't march one of my knights into Val Royeaux with crystals jutting from the side of his head, no. But a regular Templar, well he could go anywhere. But how can I be sure a Templar is truly committed to my cause, not some spy, or some fool who will abandon me to flock back to the Chantry?

"Blood magic, however, is incredible at changing how a person thinks," he said. "Penetrating a person's mind is no easy task, especially a Templar trained to resist the arts. But when they cannot focus, they cannot concentrate or resist because, say, their entire body is aflame from within," He pushed his hand forward and Cain screamed, his muscles locking in his joints and his face twisting in that same agony as before. "It becomes much easier."

"Stop!" Anya cried, tears bursting from her eyes as she looked at Cain. "Please, don't."

The ball of blood began to vibrate and bubble, the sphere of red glowing white as it evaporated in the air, a surge of power filling the space around them. Carissa's hand glowed red, absorbing the power of Cain's blood.

"Now, now, begging is beneath you, lady Anya," Raphael said. "If you are a blood mage as my dear Carissa says, all you have to do is nullify her spell with your own. If not, well, then I'm afraid your companion will soon become my pawn." He smiled. "And Carissa will owe you a heartfelt apology."

Dominic shot to his feet, but before he could take a step, a fireball struck his chest, blasting him back across the room. Carissa lowered her left hand, smoking, and returned her focus to Cain.

Raphael shook his head, giving a tisk-tisk. "So let us begin," he said, pushing his power harder.

The red light upon Carissa's hand pulsed, her eyes closed. She moved her hand in the air, her fingers tracing invisible patterns before her, swiping like a calligrapher's pen.

"This one _was_ at Kirkwall," Carissa said. "It's where he was inducted into the Order."

She was probing Cain's memories, scanning his thoughts. Anya knew blood mages could most simply scan a person's thoughts, often leafing through their memories while they slept, their spirits caught in the Fade as they dreamt.

"His sisters are all mages," she continued. "They were in Ferelden. Oh, his eldest sister, a blood mage. There's so much fear here. Abomination. His hands tremble on his sword in the Harrowing chamber, fearing another transformation."

Carissa's eyes squinted as she dug deeper. "Guilt," she said, smirking. "A mage. He prayed often for her freedom. And yet, he slays her on order from the Knight Commander."

Anya stood helpless. "Please, stop," she begged. "Let him go."

"You can stop it, if you choose," Raphael taunted.

She remembered the Venatori mage, weak and helpless below Cain's knife. He had been filled with so much rage, but behind it she knew it was fear. Blood mages had destroyed his sisters. Blood mages had haunted his existence in Kirkwall, driving the Knight Commander mad as so many fell to the forbidden magic. He had been exposed to such horrors stemming from the dark magic.

Anya had been so angry to watch him cut the Tevinter man's throat. But it was fear. Cain was so afraid, so scared of blood magic. Even as he tried to shout her down, she could see the fear in his eyes, hear the subtle waver in his voice after he had watched the Venatori control her body, threatening to kill her with the vile magic.

He feared, something she could not do. Anya could not feel it, not when the Venatori controlled her blood, not as Raphael burned her from within, not even now as they tortured Cain.

There was nothing there. Anya was empty. Numb. Devoid.

Cain's body convulsed as Raphael flared his power higher. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, blood now bubbling in pulses out of his mouth with every labored beat of his heart.

"There are strong feelings here. Feelings for this mage, very new and very fierce," Carissa said, then chuckled to herself. "He struggles with the lyrium, but he relies on her to protect him. He…"

"ENOUGH" Anya screamed, clenching her eyes, spraying tears down her cheeks. She threw her staff down the ground, lifting both of her arms before her, her thumbs crossed, fingers curling.

The blood swirled from Cain's mouth, a thin stream of red twisting through the air, wrapping around her hands like a snake coiling between her outstretched fingers. Anya sobbed, her eyes closed and head turned away from Cain.

She could feel the power surging as she focused, a sieve pulling the energy carefully from Cain's blood in a steady stream. Ancient words of power whispered through her consciousness, unlocking the forbidden seals and pulling the energy through the blood.

Anya could feel Carissa's spell, a worm crawling through Cain's, a red lance piercing his spirit, drilling deeper into his mind, brushing past memory and thought, seeking for a core where she could plant her sickened purpose, changing the threads of his very being for her own.

"Get out of his head!" Anya shouted, pushing the energy away from herself quickly in a wall of bloody force. The spell struck the wedge Carissa was cutting into him, neutralizing the spell, the force of her own power pushing the blood away.

Carissa stumbled back a step, the red light around her hand blinking out.

Raphael snorted, withdrawing his own power and letting Cain fall to the ground. He fell like a stone, consciousness lost, his tormented body collapsing into a heap.

Anya pounced down to the ground, feeling his skin, hot to the touch. She cradled his head in her lap, trying to wipe the tears out of her eyes and trying to focus. There was so much blood. She began to weave healing spells, barely feeling her connection to the Fade, but pushing hard against the barrier to pull whatever mana she could across.

"See, that wasn't so hard," Raphael gloated.

"I told you she was lying," Carissa said.

"Blood mage."

Anya pressed her hand to Cain's head, trying to start the healing.

She closed her eyes and began to silently mouth the Chant as she healed him.

She did not pray for his safety.

Anya prayed for forgiveness.


	28. Chapter 28

**Twenty-eight**

He could barely move from the pain.

Cain sat slumped in the corner, his head turned to the side, not looking at either of his companions. His head pounded and he still coughed, hacking up bloody spit. It had felt as if his entire body was engulfed in flame, while simultaneously a hundred daggers tore at his flesh. The Seeker's power was fearsome and unstoppable.

The cell was a small, tiny cage built into the cliff in the corner of Penitence, down a small staircase just underground and closed off by a large, heavy door. Thick, sturdy bars sealed them away, several runes carved into the stone and lit with red lyrium, negating any magic. Anya had tried to get them out with her magic and failed.

He couldn't bring himself to look at her.

He still felt nauseated from earlier, the blood mage prowling through his mind, clawing through his thoughts, forcefully pushing her way into his memory. Cain had wanted to resist, but the crippling flames brought on by the Seeker had consumed him. It took all his willpower just to try to fight the shock and even still he had failed, losing consciousness from the strain. When he woke, he was already jailed.

Cain stirred slightly, turning his neck which felt frozen. How long had he been lying here, head propped up on the rough stone, bent and crooked?

"Are you OK, Cain?"

It was Dominic who asked. His left hand was still atop his shoulder, but his face was not as pained as it was before. The breastplate of his armor was burnt and damaged and his neck and chin were red with burns. His hair had been singed.

"Water?" Cain asked weakly. He could feel the pulsing of the red lyrium in the runes that surrounded them. Some smaller crystals had begun to spread out from the runes, small gems growing into the stone. His mind was spinning.

"No," Dominic answered. "We don't have anything. They took all of our weapons and gear and threw us in here hours ago. It's night now, I think."

Cain smacked his lips, dry, parched.

Bitter. Chalky. Burning.

"Your shoulder?" Cain asked.

Dominic managed a weak smile. "Painful. But I'll live. Raphael set it and apologized for it," he said with a confused look on his face. "I don't understand that."

"Wish you would have stayed behind now?" Cain said, a small joke, exhaling with a snort and nodding his head slightly. As his head lightly bounced against the rocky wall, each small touch felt like a punch into the back of his skull.

"Can't say things have gone well, to this point," Dominic said, his lips turning slightly, not a smile, but about as close as he could get considering their circumstances.

Cain turned his head to look at Anya. Dominic was sitting in the corner diagonally from Cain, propped up against the bars of the cell, his legs stretched flat on the floor. Anya was in the other corner where the two stone walls met, facing the corner, curled into a small ball with her arms wrapped around her knees.

He did not know what had happened in the main hall, but his mind was his own. If Anya was not a blood mage, he would be enslaved to the Red Sun. It could only mean one thing.

"Anya," Cain said.

She didn't answer, but ducked her head a little lower into her knees.

"Anya," he said again. "Talk to me."

She was whimpering when she spoke, her voice quiet and cast down into her body, just barely loud enough to hear. "I don't want to."

Cain looked at Dominic, but the teen averted his eyes. He had nothing to say.

"_That's horrid." _

Those were the words she had spoken to him when he had said he would have killed his own sister for being a blood mage. Those were the words she had spoken after he had cut the scared Venatori's throat. Those were the words that filled his mind now.

"Anya," he started again. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She turned around, her eyes red and still wet with tears, but she looked exasperated. "Why didn't I tell you?" she repeated with disgust. "Why didn't I … why would I tell you?" Her voice rose with an angry tone. "Being a blood mage in the worst thing in the world, right? An unforgivable sin? Blood mages need to be swiftly executed before they become something worse, right?"

Cain lowered his eyes and frowned. His exhaled slowly, ashamed. "Anya, I had no idea…" he started, but she quickly cut him off.

"Of course you didn't know. No one knew. The First Enchanter didn't know. The Templars didn't know. The Seeker who came to the Circle Tower didn't even know. _I _didn't even know until years after the massacre!" she said. She was shouting. "Do you think I asked for this? Do you think I want to live like this, always hiding, always knowing that someday someone would find out!"

"How…"

"A fucking demon, Cain. I am everything you hate and everything you fear. A blood mage, tricked by a demon!"

There was a clanging and footsteps from the entry. It was Raphael, with two Red Templars, not so badly corrupted yet. They wore red crystals at their necks, their eyes glowing red and their flesh beginning to show dark lines under the skin, sickened veins pushing up toward the surface rotting with corruption.

Raphael had changed, abandoning the Chantry robes in exchange for black armor. The red Chantry sunburst was emblazoned in the middle of his black breastplate, lamellar stretching out down his arms and his legs. The fauld covering his hips shone with black-red, the slight chiming as he moved hinting of dragon scales. He wore his swords at his back still.

Raphael looked into the cage at the three prisoners. "I heard shouting," he said. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything exciting."

No one spoke to him, Anya turned back into the corner. Dominic's eyes were shooting daggers at him. Cain struggled to lift his head to look at the Seeker. Raphael's eyes met his. "I'm glad to see you're awake again," Raphael said. "I knew you were resilient.

"And because your mage friend there saved you from Carissa's probing - quite nicely done, by the way, my lady," Raphael said, pausing for a response. When Anya didn't move, he shrugged and looked back to Cain. "But while Carissa was digging around in that head of yours, she found some very interesting things."

Raphael reached into his pocket and removed a large glass vial, the viscous liquid inside moving thickly like lyrium.

The glass shone red.

"More senior Templars seem to handle the transformation better, if it's done slowly and cautiously," Raphael said, tapping the glass with his index finger. "The need for lyrium is stronger, the body more willing to accept the red, latch on to its power and take on the changes. Carissa seemed to think you were rather mortified of the red lyrium, no?"

"Just kill me," Cain growled.

Raphael slipped the red lyrium back into his pocket, pulling the ring of keys off his belt. "That would be a waste of your talents," Raphael said as he slid the key into the lock and turned. "Take both of the men. We'll turn the other one too. If it doesn't take well, we can always harvest his blood," he ordered the Red Templars.

"I never waste my assets, boy."

* * *

The pages of the tome were ancient, but were well-preserved and incredibly crisp.

Enchanter Mortain Toulouven of Val Royeaux had written an extensive treatise on the element of lightning, its nature, methods for effectively controlling it and a collection and study of several spells he had developed during the Storm Age. Anya snickered at the irony of a talented enchanter studying lightning during the Storm Age.

She sat at one of the desks in the study of the Circle Tower. First Enchanter Irving had followed her request to send to Val Royeaux for the tome and the Orlesians had delivered it as a gift of goodwill, cooperation, fellowship and well wishes at rebuilding the Circle.

The First Enchanter had delivered it to her personally in the apprentice's quarters.

"Do take care of this book, the Orlesians are very uptight," Irving had said with a smile.

"I'll be careful, First Enchanter," she said.

"Your Harrowing must be getting close, child," Irving said sitting down on her bunk with her. He was old, but since the Blight he had only gotten older. He was there, at Fort Drakon, helping hold of the darkspawn while the Warden and her companions battled the archdemon. Enchanter Wynne was there too, right at the Warden's side to the very end.

He looked even more worn, tired and haggard than he had before. The creases on his face were deeper, the bags under his eyes heavier and darker than Anya could ever remember.

His presence took her back six years in time.

When he had come through the hallway with the others, long after the horrible noises from the upper levels had stopped, she had finally pushed her way out from under her bunk and run toward him and Wynne. She wrapped her arms around Wynne's knees, sobbing and clutching onto the Archmage with all her strength.

Irving had wobbled, but crouched down and put his hands on Anya's shoulders and smiled, actually smiled despite the death, destruction and his own personal pain. "I am glad to see you are unharmed, child."

She turned the page and the gilded edge of the book sliced her finger, a deep papercut. She quickly pulled her hand back to prevent herself from getting blood on the page. She looked at the thin slice, the bead of dark blood forming on the tip of her index finger.

Something inside her felt different as she stared at the drop of blood. There was a singing power she could feel, something she had never felt before. There was a whisper at the edge of her consciousness, too quiet, too foreign to understand. But she felt thick emotions, a basic understanding inside of her.

Anya looked at the drop of blood, so perfectly round, a deep red, so dark. It was a small pearl, just a drop of her life suspended on her fingertip.

The whispers were a little louder, guiding, instructing. As she looked at the drop of blood again, she saw a puzzle, a gem wrapped in chains and locks, feeling a great treasure hidden within.

"_What do I do?" _she asked within herself.

The chattering, indistinct whispers responded, she could feel them guiding her. She reached out to the Fade - no, that was not the way, they urged - pushing her deeper into herself. She could feel her heart beating, the tha-thump, tha-thump, beating in perfect rhythm, forcing her blood through her body.

_Yes, you can feel it. _The whispers, now coming through clear in her head. She closed her eyes to concentrate. _Focus on your heartbeat, steady your breathing. Good, Anya, good._

"_Now what?"_

_You can feel the energy, sealed behind the chains?_

"_Yes?"_

_You need to remove them, carefully._

"_How?"_

_I will show you._

She felt each thread, tangles wrapped and knotted around a core. She reached out to them, the same kind of stretch she might make toward the Fade, except she reached toward the knotted power, pinching each little thread, carefully tugging it to pull it away. As she pulled, she could feel more of the power pushing up toward the surface.

It felt incredible, raw, so warm and inviting, unlike anything she had ever touched across the Veil. It felt limitless, secure, a reward for her careful exploration and focus, a tenfold dividend of mana filling her.

_Good, good, you're doing so well._

"_It's incredible!"_

_It is, but you must be careful. There will be another time, to practice more carefully._

"_Can you teach me more?"_

_Of course. I'll always be with you._

She opened her eyes, the small ball of electric dancing at her fingertip. It sparked with such intensity, such power, such stability like she had never felt before in her entire life. A major breakthrough, a major step toward passing her Harrowing, becoming an Enchanter and gaining a deeper understanding of her magic.

She felt elated, staring at the dancing ball of white, blue, purple and gold upon the tip of her index finger. The ball danced, shining, a trophy, right in the place where the drop of blood had been minutes before.

Right where the drop of blood had been minutes before.

The papercut was still there, but there was no drop of blood on the table or on the page beneath her hand. There was no smear, smudge or line of red on her finger where it had rolled away. Her finger was perfectly neat and clean, except for the small spark of lightning hanging, dancing, singing power and understanding.

Anya closed her fist, extinguishing the light. She slammed the tome closed, the leather binding crackling with age at the sudden movement, motes of dust puffing into the air from the stale tome.

She looked around the study, eyes frantically scanning for other mages, or worse, Templars. But she was alone, no one else there.

She realized what she had done.

She had just used blood magic.

She was not afraid.

* * *

Cain hung limply, his wrists fettered above his head from the dangling chains hanging from the ceiling.

His feet supported himself limply on the ground, his head drooping, muscles unable to hold himself up from the exertion. His body screamed when he moved and stretched, he could feel the pressure on his chest and shoulders from the suspension. If he had the strength, he could stand, but his legs could not hold his weight, so he hung.

Dominic was struggling, shaking in his chains, his face hard from the strain on his raw shoulder, his lips tightly clamped shut, his neck twisting from side to side. He grunted from his nose, struggling, resisting.

The red Templar punched his gut, doubling him down as the other grabbed his head, wedging stone-like fingers into his jaw. Dominic tried to bite, but his teeth came down on metal and the firm hands wedged themselves harder into his the corners of his mouth, slowly prying his jaw open.

The second templar hugged him around the chest, steadying his body from his flailing. Dominic tried to kick his legs, but he was chained to the ground, not having enough range to do anything but flail like a fish.

Raphael approached, a metal funnel in his hand with a small cone but a long, narrow spout. "Do not resist, boy," he warned. "This will be over soon."

Dominic twitched, squirming as much as he could but the two red Templars held him firmly so he could not move. His eyes were wide, darting around the room, staring at the funnel then shooting left and right as he tried to fight, groans and gasps in his throat but unable to articulate with mailed hands jammed in his mouth.

Raphael dropped the point of the funnel into the teen's mouth, pressing it carefully into the back of his throat. Dominic's eyes shut, he coughed and gagged, his stomach lurching as Raphael pushed the funnel deeper until the cone rested just atop Dominic's teeth.

He lifted the vial of red lyrium up, slowly pouring the liquid into the metal basin, the glowing, red potion flowing thickly out of the glass. Dominic's eyes clenched in pain, he gagged and sputtered, saliva and drips of red lyrium bubbling out of the corners of his mouth. His entire body shook, one last attempt to break free but to no avail.

"Shhh, shhh," Raphael cooed. "Drink, my boy. Embrace this gift. Drink."

Raphael tipped the vial, shaking the last drops out into the funnel. After a moment he pulled it out, the end dripping white drool, red lyrium and blood. He backed away and the Templars let Dominic go.

His entire body convulsed, still coughing, gagging. His head thrust back as if he had been slapped, his throat seizing, his chest shaking involuntarily. His hands clenched in and out, shaking violently in the manacles around his wrists, the muscles on his legs tightening at the thighs.

Then was a pulse through his body, a tremor that shot from his gut, shooting through his arms and legs, throwing his head forward until it hung limply at his breastbone.

Dominic slumped, his body hanging limp from the chains.

His eyes were closed and his chest heaved softly, still alive. Asleep or unconscious, but no longer with them.

Raphael wiped his hand on his leg and looked at Dominic with a sense of accomplishment. "It's so much harder when they try to resist," he said. "Are you intending to fight me too?"

Cain didn't answer.

"The red lyrium is actually quite amazing," he said, ignoring Cain's silence. "When Carissa first caught word of it, she knew it was something special. Tell me, what do you know about it?"

Cain didn't answer again. Raphael backhanded him across the jaw, his head jerking violently to the side, neck screaming from the movement. "I'll remind you to be polite and answer me when I ask you a question," the Seeker said. But then he continued. "It's like it lives. Parasitic. It feeds on the blood, you know. That's why the transformation happens. The red lyrium drink the blood and eats the flesh, changing it to crystal. It gives a man many times the strength that lyrium gives Templars, many times the durability, such power."

Raphael paced back and forth as he spoke. "Unfortunately it destroys the mind after time, but soldiers are really just tools after all. You use them for war and then when the war is ended, you really have no more need for them. So why keep them? How many rulers have lost their lives due to rebellion, from soldiers who were sitting around with nothing to occupy their time but gossip, chatting amongst each others, thinking that should have more than they rightfully deserve?

"That's what remarkable about the red lyrium, too," he said, his head looking upward with wonder, excitement. "The blue lyrium you have to find in the stone, mine it, safely ship it to the surface. Very dangerous, very expensive. But red lyrium, no, it can be farmed, cultivated. A little blood and a few crystals and soon you can have crystals that grow taller than a man, all usable, all potent."

"I suppose you had to murder hundreds to grow your garden," Cain said pithily, his head still drooping.

Raphael chuckled. "I knew there was an interested student in there. But to answer your rather insulting remark, no, surprisingly. Another wonder, quite! The first few we started with our own blood, just a little here and there. The Chantry sisters they send to sweep my halls and stock my storerooms, well, you'd be surprised how much blood you can shake out of one woman when drained properly.

"And poor Ser Guian, a young and promising Templar, his mind so damaged by the training of the Seekers," Raphael said. "It was a mercy to end his life and harvest his blood for the greater good. He certainly could not approve of the way the Chantry had treated him. Now he is part of something greater."

Cain thought of the horrific juggernaut, the giant, misshapen, crystalline giant lumbering through the field of lyrium crystals. Once a man, a Templar, now being eaten alive slowly. Would the transformation eventually be complete, no longer living, no longer sentient, just another red crystal frozen, poisoning the landscape with its toxic madness?

Raphael had already dosed Dominic. Cain didn't know if the process could be reversed. But with no chance of escape, no way to be rescued, there would be no way to stem the corruption. He hoped Dominic's body would reject it, that he might succumb to madness, a temporary and agonizing insanity, but a quick death.

He could have been patrolling an Inquisition camp somewhere far away from here, somewhere safe, away from danger. He could be learning his swordplay, gaining the discipline and training he needed to maybe someday accomplish his dream of knighthood. Instead he hung lifeless from chains, a foul sickness pervading his body.

Cain should have found a veteran, a greyed and grizzled fighter who had lived a long life, survived many battles and long ago made peace with himself to the reality that today might be his last.

Another life, another young lad, caught up in Templar games.

Another casualty.

More blood on Cain's hands.

"Why darkspawn?" Cain asked weakly.

"The darkspawn?" Raphael said, sounding surprised. "Yes, quite the scholar indeed. Simply put, they are an asset, and I don't waste assets. There are darkspawn tunnels nearby. They had actually killed some of our first Red Templars in a raid. I was quite wroth to lose the men, truly. The time and investment to gauge the transformation just right had taken months of testing, only to be killed by godless monsters.

"But Carissa, she is such a smart dear, suggested we could turn them, too, to our purpose. Their minds are weak, primitive. Blood magic could alter their brains, turn them to our cause, while red lyrium could bind them a new hive, to our Templars," he said.

Sylanni had noted she could not sense the red lyrium darkspawn they had encountered on the Storm Coast, Cain recalled. Was that why? Had the red lyrium changed them, ripped them from the hive, from the collective consciousness they shared with the Wardens?

"It's quite simple. Pain and persuasion and anyone, anything can be bent to my will," Raphael said. "The blood mages control the Templars, the Templars control the red templars and the darkspawn. And I control them all. My powers, my abilities, I can crush any of them with a flick of my wrist."

Raphael stepped forward, grabbing Cain's cheeks and lifting his head to look him in the face. "Do you see now? I _am _the Sun. Everything here worships, grows, exists because of me. I raise them from darkness, I give them life and light. The Chantry thought to be rid of me, exiling me here. But I cannot be killed. I do not lie down and die. I persevere, I fight, I thrive, I dominate.

"I am no god, no, I am not that vain. The Maker guides me, he gives me these gifts and gives me these strengths," Raphael said, letting Cain's face fall out of his hand and droop again. "But I am his new prophet. I will save this world, even if I have to burn it to the ground to rebuild it in his honor."

Raphael reached to his pocket, pulling another vial of red lyrium out and uncorking it.

"You were at Kirkwall, Cain Wygard. You suffered the injustice. You endured the madness, the wickedness that has taken grip of our world," he said. "I know your thoughts. I feel your pain and your anguish, you are longing for something more. They shattered your belief.

"You and I are not so different," he said. "I offer you this chance, to join me willingly. Help me rebuild this world, to effect the change it so desperately needs. I will give you the strength, the conviction to battle the evil set before us.

Raphael placed the edge of the glass to Cain's lips. He could smell the nauseating fumes wafted up into his nostrils, that burning, bitter smoke filling his lungs. He did not cough, he breathed in the fumes, his mouth parched the memory of the ashlike feeling of the red lyrium in his mouth.

"I offer this to you, as a gift," Raphael said as he held the glass. "The transformation can be stemmed, halted. I can give you the power you require, the power you long for, while holding back the corruption that terrifies you. Of this, you have my word.

"Help me rebuild this world."

Cain remembered the halls of the Gallows, the grey stones and heavy metal doors, the walkways and walls glued together with hundreds of year of blood and sweat of slaves and mages treated no better than slaves. He recalled the faces of the Templars, the initiates who never survived to their vows, his friends who had perished hunting apostates, battling demons and fighting a pointless rebellion.

He recalled Ser Thrask, his daughter a mage who he had lost to possession. Ser Karras, a vigilant man so hotly devoted to finding and rooting out forbidden magic that he saw it, and found it -rightfully or not - everywhere. Cullen, a good man, a man tormented and forever scarred by the horrors of blood mages in his head.

He remembered Knight Commander Meredith, so twisted by her own paranoia, amplified by the red lyrium, driving all of Kirkwall mad under her iron fist. Her screaming, horrified face, frozen in stone for eternity in the courtyard of the Gallows.

He thought of Eliza, Jenna and Jessa, sisters, family he had never been able to meet in person. They were locked away in a tower, told they were different, unallowed to exist peacefully among the populace. They died, all brutally killed by demons, for what, an ill-plotted attempt to be free? The only freedom they had won was death, release from the cruelty of their reality.

He thought of Anya, a blood mage, living in fear and secrecy for years, a dark, forbidden power she had suppressed. Her caring hands upon him, helping him trying to break the unyielding chains of lyrium, the softness of her kiss, the warmth of her bare skin as they disregarded the taboos, casting off old prejudices and hatred, joining their bodies in Mont-de-glace because they were not mage and Templar, but just man and woman, with care, trust and love between them.

Everything about his life was wrong.

Cain nodded and opened his lips.

Raphael tipped the glass, spilling the red lyrium into his mouth.

It burned, bitter and fiery on his tongue, like liquid ash filling his mouth. There was rage and madness, screaming in his ears, pounded in his head. There was acceptance, that hole in him crying out, reaching out clawing to survive.

It was wrong, like everything else that made his life right.

Raphael pulled the vial away, looking down upon the fallen Templar.

Cain lifted his head, straining in pain, the cords of his neck tightening and struggling to lift the weight of his pounding skull.

He lifted his chin high enough for his eyes to meet Raphael's, the Seeker's face smiling in triumph.

Cain spit, spewing the red lyrium out in a petering, sputtering stream.

The red lyrium dribbled between his lips, he spat once more forcefully, a light spray of droplets that splashed onto Raphael du Valen's glistening armor.

"Fuck your world."

Raphael sighed, brushing the drips of red lyrium off his armor. "Have it your way."

The red Templars grabbed Cain, their powerful arms crushing his weakened body, their strong hands wrenching his mouth open. Raphael jammed the funnel into his mouth, the metal point at the bottom scraping and cutting his throat as it was forced in.

The Seeker lifted the vial of red lyrium, holding it just over the rim of the funnel resting in Cain's mouth.

"You will serve me, Cain Wygard, willingly or not," he said.

The Seeker tipped the glass, spilling red lyrium down Cain's throat.


	29. Chapter 29

**Twenty-nine**

The reports were all brief.

Templars and mages were in place. Mont-de-glace, what was left of it, had been seized. The Chantry had lost most of its Templars to this "Elder One" and was defenseless, the minor clerics who remained scattered and dissonant. With luck, he could find more of this Elder One's red Templars and turn them to his own cause.

The Orlesians battled each other. The Inquisition battled the Elder One.

The time was right to strike.

Raphael shuffled the papers upon his desk, glancing over the reports. Ready in Val Foret. Ready in Lydes. A setback in Verchiel, but corrections being made. Reinforcing positions in Val Royeaux. He would strike Orlais like a hammer, sudden, fierce. The people would have no choice but to submit.

The darkspawn would be excellent tools, but would not be well-received by the people. The Red Templars, he was unsure of. Their looks were horrific, but they still wore the drapings of the Chantry. It was not a face he intended to promote, but a necessary evil needed to save them all.

Florian the Fool had dragged the Empire the edge of ruin and even his cunning niece could not prevent Orlais from falling into the abyss. All was crumbling and failing.

His heart ached for his homeland.

Raphael pushed the letters aside, reclining back into the chair. His bones ached. He rolled his wrists, the joint popping and grinding with each loop, the dull aching of age and use. Carissa would be up soon to give him his daily treatment, her magic halting the advance of time one more day.

How many more days would he need to carry on this way? He was old. So old and so weary. He had already been old when the Fool rose to power. He was even older when they uncovered his plot to save the Empire by killing the cancer.

Raphael could feel the flesh at his jowls sagging, his heart growing weaker by the hour, the weakness in his body, the way his mind drifted. The time between Carissa's treatments had been growing shorter and shorter, his body responding less and less to the magic. Perhaps it was his resistance to magic, or perhaps it was his advanced age when they started that let the magic wane.

Carissa had not aged a day.

He was falling to pieces, slowly, but surely.

There was no more time to delay.

He had waited forty years.

The Seekers dragged him off the boat, hands shackled behind his back and shoved him, forcing him down to the ground just off the shore, planting their thick boots firmly into his side. Althea grabbed his hair, forcing his head into the dirt as she knelt beside him.

"Eat it, you damned snake!" she commanded, jamming his mouth down harder into the dust and ash. "You are a disgrace."

The Lord Seeker had seen to it personally to make the trip to the Sea of Ash, to place him upon the road to Penitence. The empire had wanted to see him hang. Althea had exerted her influence to seize him from the deepest dungeon of Val Royeaux, snatching him from the grasp of the Orlesians. The Fool's seneschal had flown into a rage, screaming curses the entire way down the stairs, throwing out threats he had no power to carry out.

As Althea dragged him out of the cell, she had lost her patience with the seneschal. Her mailed first shattered his jaw, leaving him bleeding and whimpering on the floor as she dragged Raphael away. She led the Seekers of Truth. She was distant blood of the Valmonts themselves. She had abandoned that name for the Chantry, but not even the church could erase blood.

No one, save the Divine herself, was above her influence, not even the Emperor.

A quick death was not good enough. Raphael could not even recall had many weeks the Lord Seeker had him tortured until he spilled the names of every blood mage, noble, accomplice who connected to his plot. He had tried to resist at first, the pain he could endure, but he could not fight the dark magic she hypocritically employed to tear every piece of information from his mind.

Killing him would have been too easy, too clean. Exile, torment, were all that he deserved.

"I hope you suffer," Althea said as she lifted his head from the dirt, spitting upon his face. "They call this road Penitence, but your sin is beyond redemption. Cry out to the Maker. Plead to Andraste. They will not hear you. You are damned. There is no salvation for you."

The other Seekers lifted him off the ground, Althea grabbed the collar of his thin, filthy shirt and tore it open, shredding the rags and pulling them away from his chest. The sun blasted, he could feel his skin burning unabated, the midday heat merciless.

"Give it to me," Althea said, motioning to the others. In her hand they planted a small device, cold, black metal, a tube of shining blue lyrium inserted near the base. The metal spread out, wavy arms surrounding the central cylinder.

The brand.

The Chantry used the device to brand the foreheads of the Tranquil, the white-hot lyrium pressed directly into the flesh, frying the mind, severing the connection to the Fade.

Althea shook the device, the blue lyrium shifting in the glass, bubbling, changing color to a shining white light. The metal began to smoke, the Chantry sunburst growing red with heat.

"Do you have any last words?"

Raphael stared hard into the eyes of Althea. He had once admired the woman, allowed her to convince him to undergo the harsh trials to become a Seeker. He was not a soldier. He was a scholar. He had served the Chantry at White Spire, just happening to stumble upon the corruption of several senior Templars. He had done what was right and reported it, because it was right. He did not ask for this calling. But he had allowed her to persuade him.

But he soon found how cold she was. She did not serve the Chantry like he had. She was ruthless, merciless, the Seekers traveling all over Thedas, leaving a trail of blood and corpses behind them. She was not holy. She was not a paragon. She was a butcher. A thug. Enforcer.

She was no saint.

"You take this message to the Divine. The Chantry is lost. It is you who should reflect and repent. I have, and always will, serve the faith. The world will burn and this lost Chantry will be the center of the inferno."

Althea's face remained hard and scornful. "You are nothing and you know nothing," she said, spitting in his face once more. "Hold him."

The Seekers grabbed his shoulders. The metal of the brand had become white hot, the lyrium inside shining blindingly bright, boiling inside the tube.

Althea pressed the blazing metal to his chest, over his heart, searing and burning his flesh. Raphael gritted his teeth but he did not scream, he did not curse. He endured, accepting the pain as she pushed the plunger, the white-hot lyrium pervading into the wound, agonizing fury as it latched into his flesh, sizzling and settling.

The Lord Seeker pulled the brand away, the others cut his bonds behind his back and shoved him forward. Raphael stumbled, falling into the dirt, the puff of dust and ash mixing in the raw, scorching wound at his heart.

They turned, without another word, boarded the ship and sailed away, never to be seen again.

Raphael lifted himself to his feet, his flesh burned, the white lyrium shining in the middle of the charred and burned flesh all around. The sun blazed. The wind stank of volcanic reek. The air was heavy with heat.

Raphael du Valen stood and took his first step upon the Path of Penitence.

He would not forget, would not die and would not falter.

"Are you ready, my love?" Carissa's voice snapped him back to the small bedroom, the pile of reports upon the table, the sunlight bleeding through the drawn shades.

He had not slept at all. He could not sleep any longer, days dragging by with no rest, the only respite an hour or two of closing his eyes, never fully drifting away.

"Yes," he said. "Lets make this quick."

Raphael pulled his shirt over his head, running his hand over the scar at his heart. The flesh had healed as it could, scars covering the white lyrium still embedded under his skin. His fingertips traced around the edges of each ray, dancing, dazzling off the red sun emblazoned at his breast.

He did not die. He did not forget. It had nearly been a century since his birth, but he did not falter.

It was the most vivid of the thousand scars that now adorned his body. There was scarcely a patch of flesh upon his back, chest, arms or legs that had not felt the sting of Carissa's ritual blade, decades of sacrifice to fuel her magic. A necessary evil for survival.

He would not allow her to have his head, hands, or feet. Everything else had been offered to her blood magic.

"Where shall I rend you, love?" Carissa asked.

Raphael leaned forward, turning slightly to the left. "The right shoulder shall be fine."

"Of course, love," she said. She stood behind him, placing her tools upon the desk. She rubbed her hands together, breathing slowly, chanting to herself in the ancient tongues to summon her power.

The knife bit deeply into his flesh, a long trail of blood spilling down his shoulder blade. She dragged downward, lifting the knife, tracing additional lines in blood as the knife cut into his skin.

More than a thousand times she had traced this rune into his flesh. He could feel the tingle as she wove her spells, the blood spilling from the fresh cuts transforming to energy, her words battling back the creeping senescence. She grew silent, her breath quickening. She placed her hand flat over the bloody wound, her nails digging like claws into the open flesh.

Carissa placed her left hand to her forehead, breathing heavily. The power pulsed into him, the very air around them grew chill, the lights from the window fading and darkening. The air moved, the Veil retreating, pulling back. The spirits pressed close at the barrier, he could feel their energy just on the other side, observing the orgy of raw, tainted power she drew through herself and pushed into his being, mending old wounds, buttressing bones, strengthening his blood.

Carissa moaned, giving herself into the orgy of power, the Veil so thin Raphael could see the shapes of shades dancing like shadows before him. The barrier pulsed, rippling like water as she pushed the magic deeper into him. Her breath was rapid, frenzied, her touch growing cold inside his shoulder. Another ripple, a punch to the Veil, a wispy finger reaching across the plane, stretching out to Raphael's face like smoke.

"Enough," he said sharply.

Carissa withdrew her fingers from his flesh, pulling away blood and bits of skin, cutting the spell. A whoosh of air spiraled around them, the light returning and the opacity of the Veil fading, fading until the other side could not be seen any more.

Carissa's body was covered in cold sweat, her breath panting.

"It is requiring more power," he said. A statement. A blatant observation.

"There are other methods, my love," she said softly. "I will seek out this knowledge in the Fade. There are many willing teachers, the knowledge can be found."

"How much longer?" Raphael asked.

She sighed, stepping forward, her fingers pinching his ear, her olive hand brushing the side of his face. "At least a year. Beyond that, I am unsure," she said sadly. "The blade cuts only scars now. The flesh is spent."

Raphael grabbed her hand, pressing his cheek against her soft flesh. Still so young, so tender. She would carry on long after him. She would have to carry on his dream, his vision, long after his death.

He had pursued her from Antiva City, tracing her footsteps through the Free Marches. She evaded him through Rialto. She had tried to kill him in Wycome. He chased her through the streets of Starkhaven, pursued her across the docks of Kirkwall, always just a step behind. She evaded his trap in Highever, crossed the border in Jader. She killed a Seeker in Cumberland before he finally caught her in Val Firmin.

Everywhere she went, she left a trail of dead Templars, all unprepared to face the force of the blood magic she so willingly unleashed upon them.

He had burned her in the street, his power coursing through her body. He was prepared to push it further, to kill her there and be done with her. Even as he burned her, her face delighted in the agony, a smirk upon the corner of her mouth, her eyes dancing as delighting as she turned the pain to power, forcing her way into his head.

"_I am not your enemy." _Her voice whispered through his mind. "_I see your enemy laid before you, I feel your longing. Spare me, and I can help you achieve your goal."_

Florian had no interest in ruling. He was introverted, incompetent, maladroit. Ferelden floundered. The Empire withered. The nobles grew bolder, pressing the commonfolk to their breaking point. The peasantry starved while the nobility feasted. The Game spiraled out of control without a strong power at the top to balance, nobles tearing each other apart.

Tevinter and Nevarra grew bolder. Florian turned his back on the Chantry. The church was damaged without the strong support of Val Royeaux behind it. The devout were forced out, the church filling with the pawns of the nobles, lesser blood acting in the interest of their houses and not of the people.

The du Valens became victims of the Game. The Knight Commander at White Spire had come from noble stock, his disgraceful removal from power echoing through Orlais. His family did not hesitate to exact their revenge upon the weaker du Valens.

The chateau burned in the middle of the night, the doors barred, his father, his mother, his siblings, all trapped within. There were no secrets who had done it and why. Florian the Fool did nothing to exact the justice demanded by a heinous crime.

As he watched blue flame consume her, he could only see the burning chateau.

He spared her. It was wrong, against everything the Chantry had taught. But he felt there was something right to it, that one small evil could be turned to do a greater good upon the world.

They had failed then.

Now he was here, at the precipice again.

He would not be denied twice.

"We invade at the next new moon."


	30. Chapter 30

**Thirty**

The shaking would not stop.

His body felt so cold, but he knew he was burning up. Anya dabbed the sweat from his forehead, sparing what little water she had for drinking for him instead. She looked weak and sickly, when he could open his eyes. He tried not to.

With his eyes shut, he could see flashes behind his lids, his eyes darting wildly through his skull, straining, pained.

When he opened them, his vision was cloaked in red.

Raphael du Valen returned every day, dragging him from the cell, forcing the funnel down his throat and pouring a vial of red lyrium in. Cain retched violently, the fiery lyrium spewing back onto the floor of the cell with what little food he could force himself to swallow. His clothes stank of sweat and stale vomit.

It had been seven days now, by his count.

His muscles convulsed oddly, bulging with power. There was constant pain, as if a thick sludge was constantly forcing its way through his veins. He had taken on a fever in day three and it had not broken, only grown more powerful.

"Please," he begged through cracked lips. "Please kill me."

Anya dabbed his forehead, placing the small cup to his lips, tipping the water. He could feel the cool liquid run into his mouth and dribble out of the corner. He could not swallow. His throat was raw and swollen, he wheezed with every breath filled with burning.

"You have to keep fighting, Cain," Anya whispered. "The Inquisition will come. They have to know something is wrong by now. They can rescue us."

Cain opened his eyes to look upon her face, her skin, the stones around him, her hair, all bathed in red. He had asked Anya to describe his condition. She had declined, tears in her eyes. "I'm too far gone, Anya."

Dominic stood, his hands wrapped around the iron bars of their cell, his head lowered and resting between the span of two poles. He had been standing like that for hours, silent, his hands tightly clenched and unmoving. The Seeker dragged Cain away every day. Dominic had only had two doses, but it was clear that he was beginning to feel the transformation, too.

"Don't say that," she said, squeezing his hand between her palms. "You can't give up hope."

His mind was a whirlwind. While the lyrium withdrawal had made his thoughts fade, fuzzy, hard to focus, the red lyrium was the opposite. His mind was racing, powerful waves of emotion running through his consciousness. Anger, paranoia, fear, anxiety. His body was tense, constantly on alert, unable to rest. He could not sleep, because he could not silence the noise within his own head.

His hearing had sharpened and every creak, thump, pitter-patter sent him into a frenzy. His eyes darted around, searching, looking, sensing a threat. What remained of his will kept him from attacking Anya, forcing himself to remember her face, her voice, before he might lash out at her unthinking.

"I can't keep up this fight," Cain said. His right thigh pulsed, his entire leg jerking as the muscles suddenly contracted, his knee bending up at the joint. He tried to relax it, a crippling cramp shooting through the large muscle. He grunted, gripping his leg with his hand. Anya grabbed his leg, her hands trying to knead the muscle until it relaxed, unseized and he could lay his leg flat again.

She ran her hand through his hair, shushing him to be quiet. "Just try to relax."

Dominic stirred, lifting his head, pulling his hands away from the bars for the first time in hours. He stepped back, his fingers clenching in and out, rolling into a fist. He punched forward, his fist striking the iron bars. He grimaced, throwing another punch and another, heavy blows ringing the metal bars. Blood sprayed from his knuckles, deep gashes forming. He grunted in exertion, striking another blow, the thud of bones on metal.

"Dominic, stop!" Anya called out.

His next punch stopped mid-air, his fist falling to his side, knuckles torn open, dripping blood. He stood staring forward at the bars, undamaged. If he felt pain, he did not show it. He stepped forward, wrapping his hands around the bars once more, his palms latching around the gore he had left in his futile attack.

The teen looked as if he was a million miles away, his body a shell that he had left behind.

Anya stood up, tearing another strip from her robe as she peeled his fingers off the bar. Dominic did not move, as still as a statue as she wrapped the cloth around his shredded knuckles, tying the piece of fabric in a tight knot. As she released his hand, he placed it back on the bar.

She sat back down at Cain's side, taking his hand once more.

He turned his head, shutting his reddened eyes as he rested his head weakly on her shoulder. He tried to squeeze her hands, but he could not move his hand. He told his fingers to curl, to squeeze, but they did not respond. He whimpered, nothing more than a brief audible exhale.

"Forgive me."

He asked for it.

But he did not deserve it.

In these final hours, he would not die as the man the Chantry had molded.

Anya squeezed his hand.

She planted a kiss on his forehead. "Please, please try to rest."

Cain smiled weakly, his eyes closed again. He was still shivering, sweat soaking his chest and his hair. The runes in their prison neutralized her magic, she could not reach the Fade, could not pull her magic. Without it, her sixth sense denied to her, she felt so helpless.

Dominic was beginning to fade, but Cain was failing. For the last three days, he had begged her every day to kill him, to end the suffering. It would be a mercy, perhaps, but she could not bring herself to do it. But she knew if she wrapped her hands around his throat, if she crushed his windpipe, he would not resist. He would lie there, allowing her to strangle his last breath out of him, gladly.

"_O Maker, hear my cry. Please, deliver us from this torture. I beg, please save our souls." _

There were no answers to her prayers. The doors at the far end of the prison opened only once per day. A meager plate of food, a single glass of water and Red Templars dragging Cain away to force feed him more lyrium.

She was hopeless, useless. Without her magic, she had no hope of overpowering the Red Templars and Raphael, she knew. She had considered trying to fight, her hands clenched in fists, ready to charge the open gate. But her resolve wavered. It would be futile.

Only the Inquisition could save them now. But she had never been able to send the signal. They were waiting for her response. It had been a week. Surely they would know by now that something was wrong and be marching an army through the Sea of Ash. She hoped. She prayed.

"I never used my blood magic," she said to Cain. She didn't know why. But this was a confession she needed to make to him. "Before here."

"Anya," Cain said weakly. This wasn't a tale she needed to tell, one he wasn't sure he wanted to hear.

Even now, she was there, at his side, trying to carry him through the pain and the suffering. Cain held no doubts, he was too far gone to be saved now. He could hear the screams in his head, madness creeping in.

He had looked at his hands, saw the dark coursing veins pushing upward under pale, sweaty skin. The pain in his heart radiated through his chest.

The only thing Anya was guilty of was compassion, caring and love. The Templars had taught that a mage and magic could never truly separated, that they always held the innate threats of possession, loss of control. One slip, one minute of lost focus and even the most talented, benign mage could become an avatar of destruction. Magic was a sword mages always carried, steel always bared and ready to strike.

He believed that once, but not anymore. A weapon could be sheathed, laid aside, not used. Perhaps the same was even true with blood magic. Anya said she did not use it. He believed her. The way she had curled in the corner days ago, too ashamed to even look at him told him that she was genuine.

Cain could hear Knight Commander Meredith's admonishment, the droning, furious rant she had shouted at him when she dragged him before her after Mae's Harrowing.

"Mages will always seek to charm and seduce you. They will gain your trust, they will make you drop your guard. They will have you turn your eye and then they will strike," Meredith said, her voice as cold and hateful as he had ever heard.

"I have no use for Templars who have been compromised." The Knight Commander stood in his face, inches from him. "Have you be compromised, Cain Wygard?"

He had wanted to spit in her face, to grab her head and smash it into her desk, to hold her down and drive his knife into her gut a hundred times. Instead he had lowered his eyes from her steely gaze. "No, Knight Commander."

That was not the truth. Not then. Not now.

Cain the Templar had died that day.

That man had just been rotting since.

Anya cut him off before he could continue. "It was six years after Uldred before I even realized I could do it. I was so frightened by what I had uncovered, by what I had done," she said. "But I did go back. I did learn more, tapping deeper into it. I couldn't resist the knowledge. After what had happened in the tower once, I couldn't be sure it wouldn't ever happen again. I wanted to protect myself, by any means necessary."

She sniffled. She was ashamed. "I regret it. It was a mistake."

Waves of rage boiled within in him, the red lyrium amplifying past prejudice. The lyrium blared the warning through his body of danger, calling for him to act. He could feel strength surging through him, giving him the power to attack.

He gritted his teeth and used the strength to swallow, forcing down what little spit was left in his mouth. He lifted his hand, curling his fingers in her hand. "When did you know?"

"During my Harrowing…"

* * *

She awoke under her bed in the apprentices' quarters, the shrill screams echoing down the winding stairwells of the tower. But there were no demons, no bodies, no blood. The tower had been turned upside down, the furniture destroyed, the shelves knocked over, all as she had remembered it.

When she came to the library, there were no burned bodies of Jenna and Jessa on the floor where they should have been. There was only the shouting, the lure calling from the top of the tower. She ascended the stairs.

"There you are, child. I have been waiting for you," First Enchanter Irving called from his desk as she passed the open door of his office. The aged enchanter pushed his chair back, standing and coming to greet her at the door. "Congratulations on completing your Harrowing."

Anya looked confused. "But this, this is my Harrowing."

Irving chuckled, the dry, grandfatherly chuckle he always laughed. "No child, that is a day past. You've been sleeping, dreaming. It's not uncommon for mages to be disoriented when they return. The test is so strenuous."

The apprentices who completed their Harrowing _did _sleep for many hours past their usual waking time, she recalled. She had always trusted Irving. He had survived the nightmare, same as her. Although he was in the thick of it, bound in the Harrowing chamber, made to witness all of Uldred's depravities.

But the furniture had been upended, the apprentice quarters were empty and there was a whistling, a howling that floated down the winding stairwell of the tower from the top. No, she reached around her, her senses felt numbede, but the edges were there, rigid, jagged pieces glued together as best they could.

"This is the Fade," she said sternly. It was not a question.

Irving chuckled loudly, his laughs booming, echoing through the room, beyond the walls and through the hollow void behind them. He wiped the corner of his eye, settling his laughter. "Yes, yes it is," Irving said. "I suppose it was foolish of me to try to trick you."

Anya shifted her weight to her back leg, bringing up her hand before her. She was not armed, but she had learned a few hand-to-hand techniques from a Marcher who had been sent to the tower about a year after the calamity. He had previously traveled as an apostate with a mercenary company and had shown her a few tricks. "Are you the demon?"

Irving chuckled again, putting his hand up to calm her. "I am only your guide, as I have always been."

Anya did not relax. "That doesn't answer my question."

Irving smiled. "Your destination lies atop the tower. I will lead you, if you will follow."

"What will I find there?"

Irving motioned her toward the door, walking past her, ignoring her defensive stance. "That, you must see for yourself."

He led her up the stairs, the winding steps that carried them higher and higher into the tower. They ignored doors and passages to the upper levels. She looked through a slightly ajar door to the fourth level, noticing there was nothing beyond the doorway than the green, swirling clouds of the empty Fade. This was not the Circle Tower. This was merely a test, a tunnel leading to a destination.

Irving reached the top, the door of the Harrowing Chamber just up one last staircase. Piles of bodies, gore, filled the room. The stink of rotting flesh assaulted her, such horrid odor. Near the staircase, a shimmering white barrier, a cylindrical cage, with just one last prisoner inside.

She recognized his face.

"You broke the others, but I will stay strong, for my sake … for theirs," Cullen said, on his knees, his hands clasped above his head, rocking, praying.

He was already broken, though.

Four indistinct figures of light stood before the, spirit energy, pulled together roughly into the shape of bodies. Two women. Two men. The Warden, her companions.

"Alas, there is nothing you can do for him," Irving said. He motioned her to the Harrowing chamber.

She stepped within, expecting to find Uldred.

There were no abominations here, no demons, no blood mages, no corpses, no Uldred.

Instead, she only found herself, standing empty in center of the chamber.

"What is the meaning of this, Irving?" she asked, instinctively assuming her defensive stance again. She reached out for magic, but there was nothing there. She had been choked of her power.

He paced across the chamber, stepping behind the other Anya, who stood still, breathing, blinking, but as silent as still as a statue. He brushed her fingers through her hair as he passed her. "You asked if I was the demon," Irving said. "I am. I do not need to deceive you."

Anya pushed harder against the barrier. She was in the Fade. Her power should be overflowing here, wild, but free-flowing. But there was nothing. She could not touch it, could not draw it, still.

"I will not let you possess me," she growled.

Irving laughed. "Nor would I ask that of you," Irving said. "I am just your guide, child. I am your teacher, as I have always been. I am only here to teach you."

"I don't take lessons from demons."

Irving chuckled to himself. He stepped to the other Anya's right side, peering over her shoulder. "No, of course not," he said.

The light of the Harrowing chamber darkened, a cold wind blowing through her, frigid, prickling her skin. The chamber itself seemed to shrink, while Irving grew, his size increasing until he towered over the other Anya, nearly three times her height, his grey, bearded head rising toward the domed ceiling of the chamber.

His voice boomed with that celestial thunder it had before, shaking the entire chamber. He held his palms close to one another, fingers curled into a ball, a wild, green light springing to life between them. "I will destroy you now, Anya."

She could feel the magic in his hands, that wild, unharnessed power of the pure Fade. The green and black swirled between his hands like smoke filling a bottle, unadulterated power in his grasp. The cold was gripping, almost paralyzing as Anya felt as if she was caught in the middle of a snowstorm, howling winds pulling into his violent orb.

Anya reached for the Fade, but it was still denied to her. Frantically she clawed with her sixth sense beyond the walls of the Harrowing chamber, knowing it lie just on the other side, but she could not pierce the barrier. She looked forward at the orb in Irving's hands, raw power, but even there, she could not feel, could not draw upon the well of energy.

"Anya!" It was a woman's voice, her voice. The second Anya called to her, suddenly springing to life. She reached out her right hand, longingly, beckoning. "That is not the way! There is only one option."

The other Anya began to glow with white light, a font of energy spreading out from her form, complex, veiled, infinitely powerful. Anya could feel a connection, an understanding shooting through her brain as she looked upon her twin, her outstretched fingers, an offering.

Anya shook her head.

"It is the only way!" the other Anya called out. There were tears in her eyes. "You know what must be done!"

"This is only a test," Anya said, to herself more than anyone. Tests had answers. She just needed to find the solution, the right answer, hidden somewhere in the problem.

"There is no other way!" other Anya cried.

The sphere of Fade energy burst from Irving's hands.

Anya's hands moved by instinct, throwing off the ancient chains. The other Anya seized, her body paralyzed. The white light ceased, her body transforming from flesh to a tide of blood, a red wave in the shape of a woman. The blood beckoned to Anya's hands, she shaped it, throwing it forward all in an instant.

The red lance shot forward, the point piercing the ball of green, swirling energy as an arrow piercing an apple. The Fade power exploded, light and wind shooting in every direction. The lance moved unabated, the spear of blood striking Irving in the heart, passing through his body, striking the back wall of the Harrowing chamber, shattering stone and glass with ease. She watched, through the gaping hole in the flesh of the First Enchanter as the lance of blood continued, onward, toward the Black City, before it burst in a flash of red and white light over the towers of the tallest and central island.

Irving began to shrink, shriveling as he fell to the floor of the Harrowing chamber, his hand covering the wound in his heart. He collapsed to a knee, the size of a normal man, clutching the hole, his own blood dribbling between his fingers holding his chest like a claw.

He chuckled again, that same, Irving chuckle that was so heartwarming, so trusting, so grandfatherly. "You have done well, child," Irving said. "You command such great power, the gift of a god. There is nothing you cannot do."

Anya watched as red rain bathed the Black City in the distance, thunder rumbling through the ether. There were waves of calm and accomplishment washing through her.

"No," she said.

Irving sputtered. "No?" he shifted on his knee, a wince of pain crossing his face, red spreading across his robe like dye in water.

"I won't live that life," she said sternly.

Irving looked pained, but then smiled, the corners of his mouth turning up in a hellish smirk. He chuckled again, but this time a low, growling laugh, filled with malice. "It is too late," Irving said. His voice wavered, filled with a hissing, lisping rasp. "You are already losttttt. You are already my creaturrrrre."

"I am not!" she shouted, her foot stamping forward, a shockwave pulsing out as she slammed it into the stone floor. "Begone, demon! You have failed!"

Irving laughed that spiteful laugh once more, his eyes wild with hate and fury. "Heh. Heh. Heh," he rose to his feet, lifting his hand away from the wound, the flesh mending itself, twisting red sickness filling in, cords spiraling, knotting and sloshing together in a sick cacophony. The flesh repaired, the robe mended itself. "I do not failllll. You will falllll."

He smiled, a kindly, loving smile again.

"I'll always be with you, Anya," the demon said in a voice so sickeningly young, familiar and calming.

Anya jerked awake, surrounded by Templars in the Harrowing chamber. She could taste blood on her lips, in her mouth. There was a hand on her shoulder.

"Be calm, my child." It was Irving's voice, the First Enchanter's hand on her arm trying to steady her.

She jerked back, pushing herself away from Irving. She moved out of instinct, but there was only numbness inside. She should have been startled, frightened, afraid, but she only felt disturbed by his face.

The Templars in the room laughed. "I'd wager she probably saw you on the other side, old friend," Greagoir said, pushing Irving aside. "Wouldn't be the first time."

The Knight Commander extended his hand down to Anya, his face an expression of kindness and relief at another mage successfully Harrowed. She lifted her hand, wrapping it around the Knight Commander's mailed fingers and let him pull her back to her feet.

She looked at the commander in the eye. He looked happy. The stern, concerned, annoyed look that was usually there was gone. He trusted her now. He did not see through her. He did not know her.

Greagoir smiled, squeezing her hand.

"Welcome back."


	31. Chapter 31

**Thirty-one**

She covered her mouth as she passed the glowing crystals that covered all sides of the tunnel.

Sylanni could feel tendrils of rage coming off the crystals, a beckoning sickness that called to her as she passed by. The feeling was no so unfamiliar to her, the pull was different, the slight humming dissonant and unsteady, but not so unlike the taint within her.

She stopped, placing her fingers upon on of the crystals, closing her eyes and feeling the smooth stone under her fingertips. All things had a voice, if you would truly listen. Keeper Hallu had taught her that when she was just a young girl. Sometimes what we fear is simply what we do not understand, he had taught.

The crystal reacted to her touch, warmth swarming toward her fingers. There was a subtle vibration, a sickness and madness in it, she could feel. Sylanni could feel the crystal reaching for her mind, a sentience in the ether that sought a connection with her. She pushed aside the taint, quieting the thoughts of the darkspawn nearby momentarily, listening for the lyrium.

She could feel it there, a clumsy hand, feeling through the darkness.

"_I am here," _she thought, trying to guide it to her.

There was noise, like so many voices on top of one another, some screaming, some crying, some chattering to one another. Confusion. Anger. Sadness. But more than anything, Sylanni felt sickness. Rot. Plague. Incurable. They were emotions she understood, ones she felt every day of her life now.

She searched, feeling for longing, for regret, for something that would tell her that this was not it's true nature. That this was merely sickness.

But the anger, the hate flowed fiercer. The lyrium was old, so ancient and so bitter. If once there was something more than just rage, it had long ago been destroyed.

Sylanni lifted her hand from the crystal, a final thought of hate pulsing through her head as she broke contact with the red lyrium. The crystals chattered on the wall, the subtle vibration pushing, reaching for her again, wanting to consume her.

There was nothing left to save.

In her head, the Calling still assaulted her thoughts, but the sensation had dampened when she slipped into the darkspawn hole at Arl Dumat. The blackened volcano still belched smoke and ash, the stinking reek of brimstone, flame leaking from its summit. The mountains were so littered with tunnels, deep crevices sinking hundreds of feet into the earth.

She had felt for the darkspawn, searching for their consciousness within the sweet, sweet music thrumming through her mind. There were hundreds, thousands perhaps. This far west, so close the abyss, the darkspawn ruled this land. The mountain was covered in caverns and cracks, but it was not difficult for her to find one that existed only because it had been clawed by darkspawn hands.

As she slipped underground, the light of day far behind her, the tunnels winding hundreds of feet below the earth, the song had softened, replaced by thick stone walls, the consciousness of darkspawn and the prodding of fear that told her one mistake here would be here last.

The shadows were thick, consuming, the only light coming from the occasional volcanic vent casting red light into a cavern. There were no Deep Roads here. The dwarves had never delved this land. She only walked the path of the darkspawn here, slinking through shadows, skulking silently through rough hewn tunnels, over carpets of black, creeping slime, moving, searching for a destination buried somewhere in stone.

She had traveled for seven days, following the tunnels that moved ever south, traveling carefully to avoid packs of darkspawn. She walked the tunnel, her eyes wide to capture the shreds of light, just enough to see where she stepped in the choking darkness. But she moved most often with her eyes closed, listening, feeling.

The darkspawn could feel her too and they searched for her. She could feel them, clawing through the darkness, guided by the feeling of her. In this place, deep underground, they were the same.

As she pressed south, she felt something different. The thoughts of the darkspawn weren't just digging, feeding, searching any longer. There was more, fear, rage, command, battle. Confusion. Red lyrium. She knew she was getting closer.

Hours ago, the darkspawn tunnels had spilled into an open cavern covered in obsidian, the mirror-like stone reflecting the red light of magma deep below, the chamber blaring with firelight that danced and twisted along walls and ceiling.

As her eyes adjusted to real light for the first time in days, Sylanni fell to the ground, pressing her forehead to the smooth, warm, black stone below her.

"_I feel you here, my goddess. Sylaise, Hearthkeeper. I honor you in this hall of flame."_

The ground rumbled, the flames flickering, liquid rock sputtering from the magma shaft stretching far into the core of the world. A rush of heat filled the chamber, sweltering, overwhelming.

A good omen. Sylanni planted a kiss upon the stone, thanking her goddess for the offering. Sylaise watched over her here. For the first time in days, Sylanni found a small overhang and slept. For the first time in many weeks, her dreams were not haunted by the Calling.

Sylanni slipped past the red lyrium now, the crystals choking the tunnel. She closed her mind, pushing away the groping influence of the corrupted lyrium until she came to a door at the end of the tunnel. The iron door was heavy, thick, and emblazoned with the sunburst of the human Chantry.

The metal was scratched, clawed, dented from the unsuccessful attempts of darkspawn to breach the passage. Beyond, she could not feel any darkspawn. She had arrived.

She crouched, her tools tinkering inside the deep inset lock into the door. She moved the pick cautiously, feeling for the internal mechanism, her ear pressed to the door to listen as she fiddled with the lock. This door was ancient, hundreds of years old, stalwart enough to keep out darkspawn, but hardly defensible to a skilled hand.

The lock clicked, turned and Sylanni could feel a rush of air as the door popped open slightly. She slipped her tools back into their place and pulled her daggers.

The stairs were shadowed and she quickly, quietly stepped up them, pressing her body close to the wall, listening. There were voices ahead, quiet chatter. She crested the stairs, peering into the dimly lit room, the glow of red lyrium slightly pulsing from nearby.

She quickly sheathed her daggers.

* * *

The walls of the cell closed around her.

Cain and Dominic were gone. But Anya was not alone.

"Why am I here?" Anya demanded, looking at Po on the other side of the bars of the cell.

She was dreaming, in the Fade once more.

"Things are looking rather dire, aren't they?" Po said, the ten-year-old boy smiling at her from the other side.

Anya wrapped her hands around the bars, peering between them. "Why am I here?" she asked again, more forcefully. She didn't have the time or the willpower to deal with the boy again.

"You can save _him_."

The words hung in the air.

Anya gritted her teeth, her fingers twisting around the bars. Cain had lost consciousness to the fever. His skin was pale and sickly. His eyes were ringed in red, his muscles tight with both agony and strength. His breathing had increased, rapid, short breaths as if he could not get air. His heart was racing, his pulse nearly double what was normal and his flesh was on fire.

Po's smiling face beamed on the other side of the cell, his hands clasped innocently before him, dressed in that same apprentice robe he had worn in the Circle Tower ten years ago.

He could not be trusted. She knew his nature.

"How." It was a demand.

Po smiled wider.

"I will show you."

* * *

Sylanni shook Anya, stirring from her sleep.

The mage woke, looking disoriented, her eyes locking onto the Warden. "Sylanni?" she asked, disbelieving.

"It is I," the Warden said. "I am glad to have found you."

The door of the cell was open and Dominic was already standing, silently eyeing the open gateway. He hadn't spoken in a day. Raphael had given him a third dose of lyrium just hours before.

Before Anya could ask any questions, Sylanni was already beginning. "How long has he been unconscious?" the Dalish asked, moving over to Cain. She pressed her hand against his forehead and was digging within her pack, mixing potions.

"About a day, I think."

Sylanni swirled a greenish liquid in a glass and passed it Anya. "Have Dominic drink this. It is meant to stall the darkspawn corruption. I do not know if it will help him, but it might ease his suffering."

She grabbed Cain's limp hand, pressing down on his fingers. His joints were stiff and swollen, his skin blazing with fever. She looked at the veins, blackened rivers under his flesh. She held her fingers at his wrist, feeling the race of his pulse, the beats pulsing forcefully against her fingertip.

Dominic gulped the potion behind them. "Thank you," he said simply.

Sylanni lifted Cain's eyelid, red lines piercing the white, his eye darting back and forth behind the closed lid. Cain wheezed, his neck twitching violently at the artery. She carried many potions, salves and tinctures with her, a habit of traveling alone for years and years deep in the wilderness. But as she looked at the sickened Templar, her hands were still.

"There is nothing I can do for him," Sylanni said sadly, her eyes lowered in mourning. "The sickness looks similar to Blight. He is too advanced."

Anya did not seem as concerned by the statement as she would have expected, the mage's hands instead lightly squeezing Cain's limp fingers at his side. She sniffled, her eyes looking down at his pained face, pale and damp with sweat. "Is the Inquisition coming?" she asked instead.

"I do not know," Sylanni said.

If they had not come by now, she doubted they would. Whatever had happened, the mission had gone terribly wrong for them to be locked up below ground, the men suffering from the corruption of red lyrium. Only Anya looked unharmed, though her face was drawn and tired, her eyes red as if she had been shedding tears for many hours.

"There is a way out," Sylanni said. "Underground, through the volcano. There are many tunnels. I can certainly find one that leads to the surface. It will not be an easy journey."

Anya stroked her hand through Cain's hair, brushing the wet locks off his forehead. "We would have to leave him behind." She did not ask it, already knowing the answer.

Sylanni nodded silently.

"We have to stop the Red Sun," Anya said quietly, her eyes and hands still upon Cain. "He plans to attack Orlais. To destroy the Chantry. He'll destroy any force that stands in his way. The Orlesians. The Inquisition. Anyone."

They were just three. Dominic was ill. Anya, Sylanni had gathered, had some talents, but she was not a battlemage. She was young, recently cut from the Circle. And she was weary. She would be more a liability at this point, than a help. "This is not a goal we can accomplish." She said it bluntly. It was truth.

Anya sighed, knowing it to be true, too. "We only need to kill one of them. Raphael, their leader, or Carissa, the blood mage. The army will crumble without a leader."

"We have no forces, Anya," Sylanni said. "We…" she cut herself short.

Days ago, she had felt the pulse of alarm from a nearby group of darkspawn. _Attack. Attack. Casualties. Flee. Fear. Help. Help. Help._

The band of hurlocks had flown down the corridor as she tucked away into the shadows, a group of fighters wounded, bloodied and scrambling away. She waited, feeling for what had attacked. Shortly after, two hurlocks and a Red Templar stepped past her hiding spot.

She reached for the mind of the hurlocks, red crystals jutting from the sides of their faces, red eyes glowing hotly in the darkness. But her thoughts were not met, there was no connection, no link to these darkspawn. They stood not ten feet from here, she should be able to sense their will as clearly as her own thought at this distance. But there was only silence.

_Confusion. Anger. Vengeance. _She could feel those hours later as she neared the darkspawn again, a chittering conversation buzzing through the hive, a new threat, sharing information, planning to counterstrike. But the darkspawn did not know how, or where.

Sylanni looked back at Anya, the mage sensing her hesitation, the plan forming upon her lips. "I can bring us an army," she said, recalling the waves of emotions, the alarm of the darkspawn. "I can summon the darkspawn here, to attack. I could not guarantee that they would win the battle, but they would be ready to fight it."

The darkspawn wanted blood for blood. They had been losing broods to the Red Sun, their own warriors torn from their collective and turned against them. They were monsters, beasts, but they still protected their own.

"What about us?" Dominic asked. His fists were clenched, although he still stared distantly into the ground. The muscles in his arms were twitching, the lines of his jaw tight.

"I cannot say," Sylanni said. "When the darkspawn flood this fortress, we will likely be trapped. We can attempt to fight our way out, but I cannot say how many of the hive will descend upon us."

Anya looked longingly at Cain again, running her hand through his hair once more. "We have to try," she said resolutely. "I will do what I can to wake Cain, or I will stay behind with him."

The mage lifted her eyes, wet, to Sylanni. Her lips quivered, her gaze pleading. "You must be the one to kill the Red Sun, Sylanni," she said. "Please, you are the only one capable of fighting them now."

The Warden stood up, tucking her bottles of potions back into her belt. She bowed her head. "This I can do."

She turned, prepared to do her duty. A hand gripped her wrist. It was the boy, his face stern and focused. His fingers locked around her with an unnatural strength. Red had begun to seep into his vision. "Let me help you. I can still fight."

The young man was admirable, even in his state. She recalled his nervous curiosity at Tarasyl'an Te'las, carefully inquiring over the Dalish, the Wardens, her life. He had checked his wide-eyed enthusiasm with a nervous awkwardness.

He had at first wanted to know of the People, but his interest had been sharper when asking of the Wardens. But his questioning had been odd as he sat upon the stone floor of her chamber with him for hours. He did not care about darkspawn, his questions more pointed toward her feelings on surrendering her life to the cause.

"I heard the Wardens don't live as long," he had asked.

"This is true," she had answered. "The taint cannot be stopped. In time, the corruption overtakes us all. Thirty years is average. Some of the more resilient may survive forty before the duty claims them."

"Is that scary?"

Sylanni had never thought about it like that before. She did not know the exact date of her death, but if she survived her battles, she knew approximately when and knew how. She would perish far below the earth in the Deep Roads, throwing herself into the horde until her strength gave out.

"In death, sacrifice," she answered. "It is the third tenant of the Wardens. The Blight destroyed my people. I took on this calling so that others might not suffer. I am but one life. If my sacrifice may save the lives of many, it is a price I will pay, gladly."

The young man had nodded, absorbing her words.

She could see those words painted across his face now, could feel his resolve in the grip on her hand.

"I will seek out the leaders," Sylanni said. "Darkspawn may swarm this keep. Protect the others. Stand vigilant against the darkness and do not give an inch. Stand, til your last gasp. That is how you can help me."

He nodded, without another word.

Their gear had been kept in the room, weapons stashed in a corner near the entryway. Dominic grabbed his sword and his shield, his face grimacing as he lifting the blade in his right arm and rolled his shoulder. He was injured, but he did not favor it. He lifted the mage's staff and the Templar's greatsword.

"Sylaise protect you," she said, looking upon the young man. He stood tall, prepared to do his duty. "Dareth shiral, ma falon."

She slid the door to the jail open, carefully poking her head out. They were within a corner of the keep, she saw, away from the activity. Her eyes caught Red Templars on the wall, some others milling around the yard of the small keep. There were many shrines to the human gods here. This was not a holy place.

Sylanni pressed under the shadow of the wall, carefully, quickly moving, darting outside the gaze of the Templars and mages. She pulled her daggers as she slipped inside the far wall, into the staircase. She nimbly ascended the stairs, slipping atop the wall. She crouched low, watching the Red Templar archer patrolling, his gaze fixed into the canyon below.

He turned his back. She pounced, one dagger slipping effortlessly through his throat the other driving into his spine, steel ripping down and severing nerve. He crumpled into her arms as she carefully set him down, silently.

Sylanni peered over the wall, a field of red lyrium spread out before her gaze.

Below she could see them, hundreds of fighters, Red Templars, twisted darkspawn, rows and rows of hateful, sickened crystals. The army of the Red Sun was preparing, legions of warriors organizing to march, commanders walking the lines inspecting.

Sylanni pressed her fingers to her forehead, her eyes closing, tapping deep within her. The sweet music of the Calling strummed, but she listened beyond it, driving deeper into the shared consciousness of the darkspawn. She reached out, touching as many as she could feel. Their thoughts ran through her head. Their feral emotions flooded through her, feeding, digging, fighting, searching, multiplying.

Her stomach twisted with the sickness, nausea flooding her as she tapped deeply into the poison in her blood, embracing the corruption, amplifying her connection. She was but one voice, but she screamed across the wavelength.

_Alarm. _She pushed the emotion forcefully through her mind. _Danger. I have found them, the red ones._

She waited, the feelings reflected back to her. _Alarm. Anger. Danger. Where?_

Sylanni opened her eyes, looking upon the valley, the rows of red lyrium and the gathered army below. She pushed the images through her consciousness, the mobs of red lyrium darkspawn bellowing below in the valley.

_The human fortress. In the cliffs. The canyon below. They are all here._

There were a thousand voices in her head, overlapping conversations sending orders, debating, waves of fear, pulses of hate. _Come to me. Fight this foe. _She challenged, manipulating the forcefulness of an alpha she had felt so many times before. Her thoughts boomed across the link, striking the darkspawn crawling deep within the mountains.

The chittering continued, so loud and wild she could not discern the voices.

The noise broke, and coming across, as clearly as her own thought, one voice, male, strong, powerful, commanding. An alpha, or worse.

_We will crush them._


	32. Chapter 32

**Thirty-two**

She channeled as much power as she could into the crystal upon the staff.

Once outside the cage, she could feel the mana flow back into her, a relieving rush of power she had not felt in more than a week, stifled by the red lyrium runes. Her senses had returned, Anya's connection to magic made once more.

She felt almost dizzy, drunk, as the Fade filled her.

She stared into the blue crystal, now glowing, activated with her magic.

"This is Anya. We were captured upon arriving at Penitence and have just broken free. The army is massive, hundreds of Red Templars and darkspawn. The Red Sun is preparing to march soon.

"Their leader is Raphael du Valen, a Seeker of Truth. Destroy everything here. Do not try to rescue us. Hurry."

She cut the connection, exhaling. She didn't know if anyone would hear her message. Mont-de-glaee was destroyed. Lina and Harper were dead. Raphael had known of the Inquisition's army approaching the city. Perhaps they had already been attacked and destroyed?

There was no time to waste. She crossed the room, to the doorway that Sylanni had come through from the caverns below. She shut the door and locked it, placed a barrier over it and dropped paralysis runes in the entryway. She didn't want anyone, or anything, coming through the door while she worked.

"What are you doing?" Dominic asked as she crouched next to Cain, pulling the vials of blue lyrium out of the pack that Raphael had seized from them.

Anya sat, cross-legged on the ground before Cain as she uncorked the stopper from the vial. She began pouring the lyrium slowly out of the glass, painting a circle in shining blue lyrium on the floor around her. She put her hand out, calling mana to her to activate the lyrium. The blue liquid began to sparkle, a blue fog filling the air like a veil around her.

"I'm going to save Cain," Anya said.

Dominic looked confused. "What? How?"

Anya remembered the instructions. She grabbed Cain's knife, looking at the sharp steel blade. She stared at the edge, her heart racing, and exhaled. Her hand was trembling.

She needed to do this.

"You need to trust me, Dominic," she said. "Whatever happens, don't let anyone through the door. Hopefully, I'll be back soon."

"What? Where are you going?" he asked.

Anya dragged the knife across Cain's palm, a deep wound spilling red blood over his fingers.

Dominic gasped in surprise. She ignored him. She held the bloody edge to her own hand, slashing herself just as deeply. She cried out at the self-inflicted pain, the jolt of anguish running through her mind. She pushed the pain down. She needed to focus.

Anya placed her bloody hand into Cain's letting the blood mix.

"Anya, don't!"

His cry was too late.

Red light flared around her, the blood activated, power coursing through. She pulled the chains away, drawing out as much as she could, letting the blood magic wrap around her spirit. She could feel herself separating from her body, she aimed, pointing to her destination.

Anya closed her eyes, allowing herself to be taken by the magic-induced sleep.

She awoke, her slowly-opening eyes affixed upon the familiar bedframe. She knew precisely where she was. In the Fade. Under her bed in the apprentice's quarters at the Circle Tower.

She had never expected to end up anywhere else.

Anya rolled out from under the bed, looking at the destroyed bunkroom. Beds turned over, dressers torn up and clothing scattered about, scorched bodies of apprentices, boys and girls who were slashed and ripped apart, pools of blood around them on the stone floor.

"This is dangerous, Anya."

She turned, her staff in hand, expecting to see Po. She had no time for games, she flared her magic to her staff, ready to attack.

But when she turned, it was a different figure from her past that stood before. She hesitated, a gasp caught in her throat, and the magic fizzled and died at her lack of focus.

Anya's eyes were filled with tears.

"Jessa?"

Cain's sister smiled, softly, lovingly, the same gentle face Anya had remembered from her childhood. Anya had been a decade younger than her, but here, in the Fade, Jessa no longer aged. They were peers now, her long brown hair straight and shimmering, her long black eyelashes stretching over honey brown eyes.

Anya was flooded with sadness and excitement, but caution at the same time. This was a dangerous place. This was the Fade. The Circle Tower had been the landscape of the greatest horror in her life. She never dreamed of this place, the tower only slipping into her when the demon taunted her.

Anya had thrown herself across the Veil with blood magic, a dangerous game in itself. It was the demon who had given her the instructions. She had taken them, desperate for any way to save Cain. It was surely a trap. The demon was here, somewhere. She had no doubts of that. But Cain would also be here, as she locked onto his blood, using it as a beacon to locate his spirit in the vast and twisting Fade.

She reached out to try to feel the nature of Jessa. She was far too defined to be a wisp. Anya tried to feel past the physical, touching the spirit energy lurking behind the facade. But everything here felt foreign, perhaps on the account of the blood magic, and she could not adequately discern. Jessa didn't feel like a demon, as far as she could tell.

"I'm here to help you, Anya," Jessa said, feeling the probing in the ether. "You hope to find Cain here. He is. But this is a dangerous place. The demon has brought you into his lair and he will not let you escape easily."

She trusted Jessa. Trusting anything in the Fade was folly. It was dangerous. She had been told many stories of mages who had trusted themselves on the other side, only to fall to possession.

She could only hope now.

"Do you know where Cain is?" Anya asked.

"Where else?" Jessa said, her eyes lifting upward.

Anya started toward the Harrowing Chamber.

She passed the open door of the second dormitory, motion inside catching her eye. Anya peered in demons swarming the apprentice's quarters. The shades gored the children, fiery rage demons burning furniture. The children ran and screamed, some tried to fight, their weak spells bouncing uselessly off the demons.

"Help!" "Help us!" Their shrill screams piercing the chamber. A little girl cried in agony as a shade tore its claws into her stomach, ripping her entrails out like a child throwing socks from a drawer in a tantrum.

Anya's blood roiled, she raised her staff and prepared to fight, when Jessa's hand held her shoulder. "No," her mentor advised from behind her. "It is just illusion. The demon is trying to sap your resolve."

The demons raged, tearing everything apart, ignoring the two observers in the doorway. Anya watched as the last of the children fell, a shade filling the small child, his boyish frame transforming, twisting unnaturally as the demon seated itself inside him. Abomination.

"These events are long past. There is nothing you can do to change them now," Jessa said, sadness in her voice.

Anya stepped back, back into the hallway. She closed her eyes, inhaling the air now thick with smoke and the smell of death around her. The scent was familiar, one she had smelled for hours as she lay paralyzed with fear under bunk, waiting for rescue.

She exhaled, and continued forward.

The third dormitory was being ravaged as she passed, but she did not stop to observe the brutality, trying to ignore the frightened screams of the children flowing through the doorway. She entered the door to the library and stopped cold as a familiar scene played out before her.

"Run away! Run away Anya! Get out of here!"

She saw herself, a ten-year-old girl, standing at the edge of the bookcase, frozen in fear.

Jessa lay on the ground, scraping, trying to crawl away from the battle. Her left leg was scorched so badly, black flesh and muscle curled and burnt, white bone showing beneath the wound leaving a dark slick of blood behind her as she tried to escape.

Jenna stood before her, ice spells flying from her staff, the giant rage demon battling through her cold. The demon pushed harder, its fiery claws locking around her arms, molten flame scorching Jenna. Jenna screamed, her robes catching fire as the rage demon consumed her.

The girl turned and ran, the small Anya brushing past as she ran back into the hallway, abandoning the twins.

The demon dropped the smoldering corpse of Jenna, sliding across the floor, glowering over Jessa. The woman rolled, her face agony as she twisted on her fatally burned leg. The demon pulsed heat and power.

"You'll not take me alive," Jessa said, her hand lifting, one futile cold spell striking the demon in its amorphous form before its fiery claws raked through her face, leaving her still upon the floor.

The demon faded, disappearing before Anya's eyes, leaving just the dim walls of the bookshelves around her and the two, charred bodies on the ground before her.

Tears streaked her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she said to Jessa.

She knew it wasn't really Jessa, but she felt compelled anyway. She had been so young and so stupid. She couldn't have helped even if she wanted to. The twins had sacrificed themselves to save her. Together, they might have been able to fight off the demon. But Jessa was so badly hurt, the demon was too strong for either one of them alone.

They had paid the price for her stupidity.

They died. Po had come to her as she cowered beneath her bed. She became what she was today.

She wanted to quit. She couldn't save herself all those years ago. What hope did she have of saving Cain now? She had thrust herself into the demon's realm. She didn't know what she was doing.

"No," she said to herself, staring at the bodies of Jenna and Jessa before her. "I'm not that girl now. I'm not afraid. I won't run away this time."

The bodies began to disappear into light and fog, the air shimmering and moving as the images faded from view. The light pulled together, coalescing into another human form, the whiteish-blue light gaining features, female curves, dark brown hair, honeyed eyes. With a blink and a flash, where once there was nothing, now stood Jenna, her staff couched upon her back.

Jenna smiled, her features eerily similar to her sister, her hair a little shorter with a slight curl as it bounced upon her shoulders. She wore one gold ring in her left ear, a token she had found smashed in between the pages of a book no one had read for decades. The Templars had let her keep it, after thoroughly examining it for anything unusual, Anya remembered.

"Steel your heart, Anya, and be alert," Jenna said, her eyebrows turning down as she turned her head toward the stairwell up to the second level, as if she was sensing what lay beyond the door. "This is a perilous place."

Anya felt calmer, her will strengthened as she looked at the twins. There was no malice in their presence, she could feel protection and caring. These were certainly spirits, she thought, drawn to her. Entering the Fade with blood magic she was sure she would draw many eyes from beyond the Veil, but she had not expected anything benevolent.

She wouldn't deny the help.

She would need it, she knew, before the end.

* * *

The roar of darkspawn erupted in the canyon and Penitence jumped to life.

Sylanni sat in the shadows, watching the confusion as soldiers and mages jerked to action in the yard, quickly sliding into armor, grabbing staves and looking hurried.

"What is it!" shouted a man in the center of the yard. He wore black armor, jeweled swords at his back, he walked with command and confidence. Sylanni's eyes focused on him. He was clearly their leader.

"It's darkspawn, hundreds of them," said a young woman mage at his side. "I don't know where they came from."

"Maker's shit," the commander said. "I will not lose my army to monster on the eve of our assault!"

He grabbed the woman by her loose fitting robe, pulling her close. "Break Wygard's mind," he growled. "I want whatever information you can get me about the Inquisition, their forces, locations, maneuvers. Do it now!"

The commander shoved her away, she retreated quickly into the central hall of the fortress. The commander scrambled around the yard, shouting orders, pointing mages and archers to the walls, commanding soldiers to the stone staircase descending into the cliff.

The man stood as people ran around him, looking upward toward the sun, rolling his wrists as he mouthed quiet words to himself. He turned, retreating into the central keep as well.

Sylanni bolted across the yard, coming to the door of the keep. She pulled her daggers, taking a deep breath. "_Guide me, Hearthkeeper, as I step into the flame of battle. Heal my wounds and bestow your strength upon me," _she prayed and put her hand to the door. It slid slightly, not barred, and she pushed it open.

The room was black, dark, despite the windows high up in the walls. The light had been choked from the hall, a shimmering blue sphere against the rear wall. Inside the bubble, Sylanni could see the sitting form of the mage, her legs crossed, hands resting upon her knees, her eyes closed.

Sylanni had watched Keeper Hallu walk in the Beyond before, the way he sat so tranquil, asleep, although his mind was alive and walking the spirit world as he dozed. This was the same.

"I suppose I have you to thank for the darkspawn, Warden," the man's voice came from the other side of the room, lost somewhere in the darkness. Sylanni took one step forward, cautiously, her body crouched and ready to strike. Her eyes were still adjusting from the blinding midday light, but even then she wasn't sure she would be able to see through the magical dark.

As she stepped closer, she could see the outline a man, two longswords drawn and hanging at his sides.

"I am Sylanni Halluvhen of the Grey Wardens. To whom do I speak?"

She could hear his derisive snort across the chamber in the darkness. Sylanni slipped to her left.

"A knife-ear, and one of the woodland savages to boot. We should have eradicated your kind long ago," he said with a hiss. "I am the Red Sun. I am Raphael of the House of du Valen of the glorious empire of Orlais. I am the savior of the Chantry. And I am your doom, knife-ear."

It was too dark. She was at the disadvantage here. Raphael knew this space - where the benches and tables were set up, if they were steps or a slight pitch to the stone floor. She had trekked enough of the Deep Roads to know darkness, but the dim here was unnatural, magic-infused.

She continued to move left, watching as his body turned slightly, though he did not step. He stood between her and the mage. He had to hold position and defend the mage, Sylanni knew. He wouldn't be drawn out across the room and wouldn't slide too far to either flank.

"You call me knife-ear, but when the Blight threatens to overrun this world, it is The People, not the shemlen who sacrifice to stem it," she said, holding his attention, gauging the distance between them.

There was a bench here, too close to the wall. If she wanted to attack from this side, she would need to go up and over the table. Leaving her feet would be too dangerous.

She recognized the symbol on his breastplate, that of the Seekers of Truth of the Chantry. She did not know much of the human customs and faith, but she had learned of their warriors. The Templars were countless, rank and file. But these Seekers, they were the vanguard, the shield of the Divine herself.

To rise to such a rank, he must have been a skilled fighter with a blade. And he carried two.

"The dog lords of Ferelden nipping each other, relying on savages to defend their land. This is your triumph?"

Sylanni could catch a glimpse of his armor in the haze. Leathers, some plates up and down the arms and at the feet. She might be able to turn a knife off the pauldrons. A plate covered the breast, but his midriff was exposed. Better flexibility, but a weak point, if she could slide a dagger past his guard.

"The Dalish know something of pride. The Wardens of honor and tradition. Have you ever kept an oath you swore? You corrupt men. You leash the darkspawn. These are not the actions of a noble man."

Again, Raphael laughed. Sylanni moved back toward the center of the chamber. She took a hard step forward, light on the balls of her feet to not make a stomping sound. But he did not flinch. She knew he could see her, but he did not startle.

"Do you know how the Orlesians caught me and sent me to this hell?" he asked, ignoring her statement. "Of course you don't. You've lived under a rock, quite literally, slopping around in darkspawn filth."

Sylanni moved to the right and could feel another bench here. It was as she thought. One corridor, down the center of the room. A gauntlet. She would have to go straight through the disgraced Seeker in order to strike at the blood mage.

"One of my co-conspirators, Jean-Paul Valacroix, a stupid and perverse man. He had developed a, shall we say, taste, for knife-ears. He would beat them, cut them and have his way with them. He had unchained one of the blood sacrifices, a pretty young elf girl. But he was careless. She knifed him in his idiot face and escaped, alerted chevaliers in the capitol."

Sylanni reached to her belt for a fan for a pair of throwing knives. She pulled them between her fingers and with a backhanded snap of her elbow, threw them across the chamber. His blades came up in one swift motion and knocked each aside with the ease she would expect of a Dalish hunter training for years.

"Pitiful," he said at her attack. "A hundred chevaliers stormed the palace as I prepared to strike down Florian the Fool. My blood mages had cleared the guard, sentries unnoticeably out of place, pulled away from their posts by a gentle tugging in their minds that they could not ignore.

"The Chantry expelled me to this hellish wasteland, the rest of my life to reflect on my sins, seeking atonement. Atone for what? For doing what was right for Orlais? For saving my homeland, it's people and the Chantry itself? They cast me as the villain, but only I was working to save _them."_

As she edged closer, more of him came into view in the dim. His stance was unfamiliar to her and she had not fought many who wielded two long blades. But his method could not be much different from hers. He carried no shield, so he would be exposed if she could open his blades.

"You blame The People for your own arrogance and your own maleficence. You have learned nothing. Evil has poisoned your heart, corrupted you beyond redemption."

For the third time, Raphael DuValen laughed. He raised his blades now as she closed within four paces of him.

"I'm going to enjoy killing you, you fucking knife-eared bitch."

The building rocked, an explosion outside, shaking the stones of the building. Sylanni darted back, extending the gap as she regained herself, unsure of what was happening.

"It seems we have more company," he said, a snicker in his voice. "Joy." She could see him waving his right blade, beckoning her. "Let's have at it. I don't have time to waste on you, knife ear."

Sylanni launched.

* * *

"Bring them down!"

The Seeker stepped forward, her blade pointing north into the canyon, her shield down and low at her left hip. Cassandra Pentaghast looked like a statue, a pose that could be frozen in marble for all eternity, her tabard snapping in the wind, the sun reflecting sharply off her meticulously shined armor. Her face was stern and sharp, focused, her dark eyes locked on the valley before them, the red lyrium crystals jutting like spines from the earth.

Templars and darkspawn tore at each other in the valley, not even paying mind to the third entrant into the fight.

Lina lifted her bow, drawing the string back in one fluid, strong motion. The white feathers in her fingers brushed her cheek, rubbing across burned flesh still raw and healing.

"Archers! Fire!" The Seeker commanded, a hundred bowstring singing as arrows whizzed out of the column, barbed shafts piercing darkspawn, Red Templars, and splitting red lyrium crystals as the missiles hurtled down from the sky.

Her heart was racing, Lina didn't think it had slowed since her narrow escape from Mont-de-glace. The flames licked at her back, the last fireball detonating just behind her. The fire had blown around her as a wall, her clothes burning, her long hair singed by flame, her skin smoldering as she sprinted through the flashfire. But she had burst through smoke and flame, out of the gates of Mont-de-glace, her feet gliding over the road leading into the city as if she were flying.

She had run until dawn when she collapsed along the side of the road, clothes nothing more than burnt tatters, her lungs burning with exertion and her muscles at their breaking point. Her flash was still on fire, deep burns across his face that she felt for the first time as she collapsed to the ground.

Lina lay on all fours, her heart thumping up and down, her lungs gulping air. She clenched her eyes shut, her hands rolling into fists, pounding the dirt in frustration as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Harper was dead. Cain, Anya and Dominic would likely soon follow her.

She had lived, but for what? Once again, she had failed.

She couldn't remember the last time she wept. Not since she was a child.

It was not until she saw the banners of the Inquisition upon the road that she could bring herself to her feet again. She stumbled forward as the scouts pushed ahead, gauging whether she was friend or foe. The scouts caught her as she fell forward, her injuries so visible. They had all seen the dark smoke pouring into the sky from the burning city in the distance.

"I am one of Nightingale's agent. My name is Singer," Lina said breathlessly. "Please, I have information about the Red Sun."

The scouts took her before Pentaghast to deliver her report personally.

The Seeker marshalled the army, foot soldiers, archers and a hefty contingent of Circle Mages the Inquisitor had freed from the yoke of Tevinter. They pushed forward, driving hard toward the city.

It had taken four days to break the walls of Mont-de-glace, the Seeker losing her patience and ordering an all-out-assault on the walls on the third day. The Inquisition had taken many losses breaching the gate, but the army slaughtered its way through the smoldering streets of the city, cutting down dozens of Red Templars who battled them in blood-soaked alleys and lanes.

They had rested, gathered provisions and set sail across the sea.

"Inquisition!" The Seeker boomed from the front rank. "Before you lies horror and abomination. I do not need to tell you this cannot stand. We will crush this army and raze this fortress to the ground. The Maker protects the righteous and the just. Let us do his will this day!"

She turned, her shield before her as she pointed toward the battlefield with her blade. "For the Inquisition!" she cried.

The army, Lina among them, charged ahead.

She would not fail again.


	33. Chapter 33

**Thirty-three**

Her daggers darted in, the longswords checking each stab and tossing them aside.

Sylanni bounced left, whirling the blades as she turned, the sword again catching the smaller knife and tossing it back. She pushed off her foot, vaulting backward with a flip, crouching low to the ground.

He was fast and strong, very practiced.

The daggers in her hands flared, flame jumping to life upon the steel.

"Two can play at that game," Raphael said, his swords blinking red, the blades wrapped in a red haze and electric. Sylanni could instantly feel the presence of red lyrium, corrupted runes he had built into the blades.

She darted to the side, trying to get around him toward the mage, but his feet were as quick as his swords as he slid across the floor, blocking her route and throwing a quick strike to push her back. She raised her blades in an X to catch it before her face and tossed it up, spinning underneath and trying to close in. But his other sword was coming around, he had the reach, and it grazed her leather armor as she moved a moment too late out of the way.

The sword cut through hide, the red lyrium enchantment scorching her flesh underneath. The wound burned like flame, she could feel her body tightening around the small cut as her abdomen contracted around it, seizing like poison.

Her fingers were at her belt, unhooking the fire flask. She tossed it left, spinning right, hoping to divide his attention. The sword came up and smacked the glass aside to the wall, the flask breaking, spreading flame harmlessly across the stone floor as he sidestepped, the other sword kept level, tracing her movement.

She darted in, sliding past the first sword, whipping her daggers around to strike at his midriff, but the second blade was not far behind, causing her to have to roll out early.

"I thought you savages were supposed to be fighters," Raphael taunted. "I'm unimpressed."

He took a defensive stance yet again. She ignored his insults, he was trying to erode her will, to induce her to anger and error. She would not give in to his underhanded tactic. Sylanni looked over his shoulder at the mage, still safely sitting within her barrier.

"Ah, ah," Raphael said. "Eyes forward, knife-ear."

She did not expect him to charge. He pushed forward, his swords raised before his chest. She backed, hoping she would not trip over something in the hall. Raphael threw a hard feint with his front blade, she anticipated it, dodging the second strike from the back blade as she twisted around the cross-slash. She swung her daggers out, hoping to connect with his other arm but it had already been pulled away. She pressed inward, pushing to strike, she slipped inside his guard, her dagger pointed for the joint at his armpit.

His left arm came across, a blunt blow striking her arm as she pushed her attack, knocking her aside. Her foot slid in the impact, she slipped, his other blade crashing down into her shoulder, the corrupted steel biting into her pauldron. Sylanni grimaced as the steel cut flesh as she dropped low, throwing two strikes that glanced weakly against his armor as she forced herself to roll back away from him.

She twisted her left arm, the wound burning and muscle tightening. She needed mobility more than anything and the weakening shoulder would not do. Raphael backed toward the mage, his guard dropping low as he slowly backpedaled.

"That stings, no?"

Sylanni grabbed an antiseptic, haphazardly spilling the medicine across her shoulder to try to staunch the pain. She tossed the empty bottle aside, glass shattering as it hit the floor. Her breathing was heavy, the pain in her shoulder creeping into her chest like a snaking fog.

She charged again, throwing strikes, parried. She spun, checked. She pushed forward, turned back. Sylanni advanced, a flurry of quick strikes, her hands working high and low, crossing over each other, her feet planting and forcing Raphael back step by step in her furious attack, but he twisted away and crossed every strike as if he were reading every move before she made it. He smirked in the effort, throwing two hard slashes that forced her back off his person once more.

Sylanni had shredded groups of shrieks with less effort, the lost elves as quick and nimble as she. She had cut down hurlocks twice her size and strength, woven between hails of genlock arrows, bending under shafts in mid flight as she closed the distance in the Deep Roads to cut them down. But she could not land a strike against the Seeker. His defense was stalwart and impregnable.

She was panting, her shoulder was numb and stiff and her lungs burned with each breath she took. She was panting like the wolf, exhausted chasing prey that it still eyed hungrily, always out of reach.

"Are we done here, knife-ear?" Raphael taunted, his chest moving in steady rhythm, unimpeded by the fatigue of the fight. "Run back to your darkspawn hole and begone, while you can still use your scrawny legs."

Her fingers dangled around two more flasks at her belt, one in each hand. She couldn't keep up the fight for much longer at this pace with her injuries, she knew.

"Let's end this," she growled, throwing the first flask high. The glass turned end over end, striking the ceiling and splitting, raining fire down over the Seeker. As he moved, ducking away from the liquid fire, she threw the second bottle down toward his feet, the glass breaking and filling the gap between them with a puff of black smoke.

Her feet pressed hard against the floor, jolting her forward as the magical flames on her daggers extinguished. She pushed into the smokescreen, her foot jerking hard right, sending a puff of the fog in that direction as she cut on a corner, rolling left around the Seeker's flank. She could see the outline of the man in the haze, his body turning slightly to his left.

Sylanni burst through the smoke, coming across his back shoulder, her daggers lifted high above her head. She left her feet, going up high and bending around his shoulder, her eyes locked on his neck. She fell through the air, her left arm coming down, the tip of the dagger pointed toward his jugular.

And in one motion, quicker than humanly possibly, he turned, his swords coming up. Sylanni had no time to shift, no way to dodge as the first blade raked across her thigh, the second biting hard into her unguarded left flank, steel cutting through her leather breastplate and digging into her ribs.

The power behind the strike was crushing, throwing her out of the air and crashing into the floor. She landed hard, searing pain cutting through her ribs and her left leg. Her hand fell to her side, instantly feeling hot blood seeping from the gash. Her leg seized as she tried to kick, to try to scramble away from Raphael.

"And so ends another knife-ear savage," Raphael said as he stalked across the room, Sylanni frantically trying to crawl away, but the crippling pain choking the air out of her lungs as the fiery red lyrium corruption pervaded her chest and hip.

Her feet scraped at the floor, pushing her back until her shoulders bumped the wall, a smear of fresh red blood on the floor where she had moved. Her hand trembled as she reached toward her belt for another bottle, bloody, fingers slipping over glasses as she tried to feel for something, anything to help her. A healing tonic, a smoke bomb, another flask of fire. But she couldn't concentrate, burning agony clouding her mind as she groaned loudly, struggling to inhale.

"What is that nonsense the Wardens say? 'In death, sacrifice?' Well tell me, knife-ear, what greater good does your pitiful life purchase?"

Raphael stood over her, a pace away, one sword pointed down at her, the other raised above his shoulder, the killing blow loaded and ready to fall.

Sylanni closed her eyes.

"I come to you now, Sylaise."

* * *

The bodies were piled upon one another, mages burned, stabbed, torn to pieces, flesh and blood gorged upon.

The third floor of the Circle Tower was a shrine of gore and destruction, dozens of the Harrowed mages strewn about in pieces around the chamber. Anya recognized the body of Niall, his lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling, his body unmolested but withered and broken on the stone floor.

The powerful sloth demon sat upon a throne of bodies, feeding upon the life energy slowly sapped from the mages caught in its web. Anya watched as the sleeping mages were fed upon, their skin wrinkling and shriveling as the demon pulled sustenance from their spirits.

It was only an image, another horrifying scene of Uldred's rebellion replayed before her eyes. Anya felt sick to her stomach as she looked upon the vile orgy of Sloth. She raised her hand, readying a spell to blast it away, but she felt a hand on her shoulder staying her.

"These are just phantoms, Anya," Jessa said, her face drawn and mourning. "You cannot change what has already passed here. This images cannot harm us, they are only meant to weaken you. Do not let the demon manipulate you."

Jenna stepped forward instead, raising her hand, a whoosh following as she swept her arm across her body, the visions flickering and faded, leaving only the empty room behind. "We should continue."

On the upper levels they passed images of corpses and demons prowling the upper libraries, mages' quarters and training chambers. There were countless more bodies strewn about, some that had been shredded, their blood splayed all over the walls and floor where they had tried to run or tried to fight.

They reached the upper level, the last room leading to the Harrowing Chamber. As they stepped within, she was met with the familiar sight, the shimmering white barrier cordoning off the room, a sole Templar trapped behind the magical gate.

But it was not as she remembered it.

"Get out of my head! I will not break!" Cullen screamed, his face pale and weak with exhaustion. He spun around his cell, his hands flailing at demons that were not there, ducking and cowering, his hands streaming through his curly hair. "I can feel you inside me! I won't let you have me."

The Templar through himself against the front of the barrier. "You!" he screamed, staring at Anya. "Blood mage! This is your doing!"

His fingers raked his cheeks, fingers and nails digging into his own flesh, leaving bloody streaks as he peeled away his own skin. "Quit crawling through my head, you monsters!" He screamed in pain as his hands continued to rip his own visage apart, his fingers scratching through his brow and scraping across his eyes leaving bloody claw marks.

He turned and slammed his back into the magical barrier, falling to the ground with a thud as he continued to claw at himself as if he were filled with vermin eating him from the inside out.

Anya turned away as his shrieks grew louder and more pained. She didn't want to watch the vision of the Templar tear himself apart. This was illusion, meant only to sap her resolve. Nothing more. Nothing more, she told herself as she forced her way up the stairs.

As she reached the door, she turned and realized Jenna and Jessa were not with her. "Are you coming with me?" she asked. She hoped they would. She needed their strength and their protection against whatever lie beyond the doorway.

Jenna stood at the bottom of the staircase, her hand held before her, her fingertips stopped in mid air as if she were pressing against a window. She lifted her other hand, feeling a barrier. Jessa had her eyes closed, sensing.

"It's blood magic," Jessa said. Jenna punched forward, her fist striking the invisible barrier and bouncing back. "Someone has set a barrier here to keep spirits and demons at bay."

Jenna felt the invisible wall again. "It's strong," she said, tapping again, her fingers making contact with something that wasn't there to Anya's eye.

"The demon did this?" Anya asked, looking at her two companions trapped behind a wall she could not perceive.

"No," Jenna said. "This is certainly not the work of a demon."

"Carissa…" Anya muttered under her breath. "How can I break the barrier?"

"You'll need to disrupt it at the source," Jessa said. "You must find whoever is responsible and end them. This barrier repels us, but it should also repel any demons, unless they are already within. Tread cautiously, Anya."

Anya grabbed her staff from behind her and wrapped her fingers around the grip. She had entered the Fade with blood magic to track the location of Cain's spirit. He would be on the other side of the door, she assumed. But whatever else lay on the other side, she could not be sure.

She took a deep breath. She was not afraid. Anya pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The Harrowing Chamber was not here, instead it was only the jagged, broken terrain of the raw Fade, unsculpted by the hands of spirits or demons. The Black City loomed low in the sky, much closer than she had ever remembered seeing it. She was far deeper in the Fade than she had ever been before.

The grey rocks, the sponge-like, porous stone spread out before her. She had only seen the uncostumed Fade a few times before, but here, veins of red lyrium ran through the stones, fiercely and hotly glowing as they twisted through the rock, great crystals jutting into the air.

The landscape rose upward, a twisting path cut between jagged shards of red lyrium jutting across the passage, winding up to a plateau of stone. At the pinnacle, a storm bellowed, black clouds, crackling with red electric, swirling and snapping fiercely in the air. The summit was obscured by the raging storm, but Anya knew that is where she would find Cain.

"I thought I sensed an intruder." Carissa sauntered down the path, her veil-like garments fluttering behind her as she descended, the golden staff clutched in her left hand. "And it is the weakling Circle mage."

"What are you doing here, Carissa?" Anya said, raising her staff and pointing the head at the blood mage.

Carissa raised her bloody palm in answer, pointing her long fingers at Anya. She could feel the influence of blood magic approaching her, the tendrils of the dark magic reaching out for her own blood. Anya placed her index and middle finger to her forward, twisting her staff back behind her and letting loose a pulse of neutralizing magic, pushing the influence of blood away.

Anya's fingers traced a rune in the air, quickly scrawling the complex lines as best as she could remember them, the figures illuminating the air before her in magic light. She quickly ringed the rune, the magic sealing and activating. Below her feet, the glyph of neutralized formed a barrier ring around her.

Anya silently gave thanks that she remembered the lessons in the moment of need. She had found Creation magic to be particularly uninteresting outside of healing and had found the aged Enchanter from Nevarra exceptionally boring.

She wasn't sure the glyph could hold back spells from Carissa, but it would at least give her a chance to survive a full frontal attack.

"My master has ordered me to rip every bit of knowledge about this Inquisition from your lover," Carissa said, smirking at Anya's attempts to defend herself with glyphs. "He suffers so greatly already. Digging through his mind is so simple. If only you could feel his disdain for you, a blood mage. His hate is so strong."

"That's not true," Anya said. She had already been tested by the visions of the demon, she was steeled against such attacks on her will. Cain had asked for her forgiveness as he lay dying in their cell. He did not hate her, she knew. "Leave him."

"Or what?" Carissa said cockily, raising her staff. The golden staff glowed blue, the glyph around Anya unraveling around her feet.

Anya again placed her hand to her forehead, pulsing another wave of neutralizing mana, breaking Carissa's spell. "Leave or I'll be forced to kill you."

Carissa laughed loudly at the notion, covering her mouth daintily with her free hand to stifle the humor. While Carissa laughed, Anya quickly formed the glyph again, tossing it down at her feet as she pumped more mana into the spell to strengthen it. Anya slowly opened herself more to the Fade, allowing more mana to spill into her.

Her instructors had warned her about the dangers of opening oneself to the power too widely. Like a floodgate on a dam, slowly easing the flow was safe and effective, but throwing wide the gates too quickly could lead to a flood that you might not be able to control.

Carissa had already proven herself to be incredibly powerful and ruthless. There were no risks too great to take in this moment, Anya knew.

"You? Kill me?" Carissa's staff was wreathed in flame. "I have studied and mastered blood magic over decades, before you had even been spawned by your pitiful mother. I have plundered the depths of the Fade, trained under powerful demons, only to destroy them as I exhausted their knowledge."

Carissa raised her free hand above her head. "This world, this is my world. You are an intruder, a dabbler toying with magic you do not understand."

She laughed, the golden head of her staff burning even brighter with fire now. Anya was not practiced in ice magic, although it was the stronger counter to Carissa's fire. She instead forced lightning into her staff, trying to plot how she might counter the blood mage's spell that was sure to come.

"You have used your blood to enter this realm," Carissa said. "But you don't even realize you are trapped. You cannot just wake so easily as if from a dream. When I kill you here, you will cease to live in the physical world too. You will not just jolt awake."

Anya considered striking first, but Carissa's eyes were trained on her. She wasn't sure she would be able to get the spell away quick enough, or that the blood mage simply wouldn't overpower her.

"So, I give you an opportunity," Carissa said. "I will consider sparing your pathetic life if you fall to your knees and beg me for it."

Anya pushed more mana into her staff, quickly escalating her power. "No!" she shouted, electric snapping in the air around her as she pulled the power in, letting the rush of mana fill her body. "I will not turn back!"

Anya threw her hand up to the sky, calling down a thunderbolt that roared through the blackened clouds of the Fade, striking down into the ground with a deafening clap of thunder. Carissa's knees buckled as she shielded above her, deflecting the blast of lightning away. Before she could counterattack, Anya pulled her arms out to the side, letting the barrage of lightning shoot from her body, a dozen small bolts twisting through the air.

Carissa bent back, throwing a cone of flame forward, the fierce fire burning through the weaker electric, inferno burning forward toward Anya.

She pulled the electric inside her, her body quickening with the elemental power and she pointed it to her left, time slowing to a crawl as the magic wrapped itself like a shell around her. Her body lurched forward, gliding over the terrain as she watched the flames roll slowly to the spot where she previously stood. The electric trailed off her, her body moving one with the speed of the bolts, the magic rapidly dissipating as she bolted across space in a fraction of a second.

The slide ceased, time quickly restarting, the roar of Carissa's fire filling her ears as she found herself at the blood mage's flank. She pushed forward a ball of spark, the bolt spiraling through the air and striking Carissa in the side before she could react. The flames sputtered and the blood mage stumbled back from the blow.

Carissa's turned, but by the time she did, Anya was slipping into her shield of lightning again, charting another path. The spell was consuming, exhausting. Anya could feel her chest heaving, her hands trembling with both anxiety and excitement in the heat of the battle as she lurched forward again, riding the lightning, shearing through the Fade.

She plotted her next move, preparing as the world returned to normal speed around her, raising her hand like a claw as fingers of lightning burst up from the ground around Carissa, the bolts wrapping around her body like tentacles, shocking her.

Carissa cried out in pain - or was it pleasure? - as the current tightened around her, bolts burning and shocking. The chains wrapped closer, tying her up as Anya tightened the web, coursing more power into the spell, hoping to paralyze her body.

Anya cracked a small smile as Carissa struggled against her magic, the mage squirming but unable to break the chains. For the first time since discovering her gift, Anya felt exhilarated, arcane power coursing through her. Was this the same joy Carissa felt as she watched Mont-de-glace burn below her?

The lightning burst, feedback shooting up her arms as the spell broke, shattered in an instant, jolting her backward.

Anya's arms went numb, the lightning surging back up her arm. Her fingers fumbled around her staff, she forced herself to curl them to keep her from dropping the weapon as her entire arm from elbow to fingertip tingled.

Carissa stood, free of the chains, red blood dripping from fresh wounds, pulsing brightly with light. Her staff stood, levitating in air before her as she held her hands out to her sides, hot, red blood dripping down her palms and running down her fingertips, sanguine beads bursting in energy before they struck the ground.

Red light burned from her eyes, her hands smoking as she pulled the blood magic through her, her entire body floating off the ground as she manipulated her own life force.

"_Oh shit," _Anya thought, the only thing she could force through her mind as Carissa lifted her chin, her dark hair and clothing flapping in the wind of the the storm she conjured like a tempest around her. Anya lifted her arm, preparing to pulse some neutralizing magic, but it was too late.

The glowing blood running from her palms lifting into the air, launching forward in red-hot blades, foul magic cutting the air. Anya tried to move, but she had no time to react, the first blood slashing her left knee, the second cutting her across the right shoulder. A third cut her right arm. Then her left arm. She dropped her staff. A flurry of magic, like a dozen knives slashing her, Carissa summoned from the cuts, each burning and slashing Anya into submission.

She was battered backward by the force, falling to her knee. Her throat constricted, the feel of magic locking in the blood around her neck. Carissa raised her hands, Anya lifting off the ground, suspended by blood claw wrapped around her throat. Anya raised her badly cut hands, scraping uselessly at the air as she tried to break the hold. She scrambled for mana, but before she could grasp anything, she was thrown down to the ground, the force jarring the air from her lungs as the stone below her broke from the impact.

Carissa was on top of her before she could even think of moving or defending herself.

Carissa drove the burning blade at the end of her staff deep into Anya's left shoulder, pinning her to the shifting ground of the Fade below her.

"You could never stop my master! You are weak! The Fade will consume you!"

Anya screamed out in pain as the blade bit through her robes and flesh and the magical fire scorched her bones. Her right arm flailed to try to reach for her own staff, but it was far too far out of reach. Her legs kicked but Carissa was standing over her, the woman's boot firmly planted in her already battered ribcage.

"Did you really think you could walk into MY world! Did you really think you stood a chance here!" The magic was pulsing through Carissa and she had gone wild with rage and power. Droplets of blood suspended in the air around her, one at a time popping like bubbles. The surge of power washed over her and the Fade became more violent.

The wind, fog and snaps of energy in the red lyrium storm behind her grew more intense in each second, as if she fueled its fury as well.

"Once I'm done destroying you, I'm going to rip the Templar to pieces for my own amusement you foolish bitch!" Carissa gave the staff one hard twist and the flaming blade tore down from Anya's shoulder to her heart.

The pain was incredible and Anya could feel her strength fading quickly. Her flailing had subsided. Across her body, all she could feel is a numb calm taking her muscles, her mind slowing and her vision fading.

"_I'm going to die." _she realized in the moment of clarity. "_I'm sorry, Cain."_

* * *

"NOOOOOOOOOO!"

The haunted scream pierced the room.

Raphael turned his gaze just enough and Sylanni seized the distraction, driving her boot hard into the Seeker's knee.

Raphael grunted in pain and stumbled.

Just enough.

Dominic was in a full sprint, tucked low behind his shield as he charged across the darkened chamber. His body was bursting with energy, the strength of the red lyrium coursing through him, the rage building in the forefront of his mind. If this was the torment the Red Sun had given him, he would use it to serve the greater good.

He had stood sentinel before the door of the prison, stolid in defense of Anya and Cain, the mage lost in the Fade. But his entire body itched, the red lyrium urging him to action. He could hear the muffled sounds of the battle, his hearing sharpened by the lyrium. Struggling, shrieking, screaming as the armies raged outside.

When Penitence shook, an explosion rocking the fortress, he could not hold himself back any longer. He pushed out of the door, marching toward the wall where archers and mages were firing projectiles down into the valley. They had their backs turned, not expecting anyone from behind. He bounded up the staircase to the wall, stalking down the line, no one paying him mind. He was just another Red Templar after all.

That was until he drove the sword down into the neck of a blood mage firing bolts of spirit energy off the wall. The force of the blow nearly sheared through the mage's neck, throwing him over the short rampant, free-falling as a corpse to the ground below.

An archer turned and he ran him through with the sword before the Red Templar could fire, dropping the body off the end of his sword and continuing forward. He deflected a fireball off his shield and cut down another mage, and another. A Red Templar archer managed to get a shot off that he turned aside off his shield and the follow-up blow from his sword cause the archer's head to burst as the sword shattered his helm and skull.

He reached the other end of the wall, ten bodies littering the white stone rampant behind him.

Dominic's eye caught flashes of light from the windows of the central keep. "_Sylanni."_

He had arrived just in time, his eyes locked on her cowering form on the ground, his nostrils picking up the scent of blood from across the chamber. The rage inside him built to a boil, the red lyrium burning in his blood, fueling him.

And so he had charged.

Raphael couldn't recover before Dominic was on top of him, his shield smashing through the Seeker. Dominic brought his blade down, a wild, unfocused slash that found purchase, biting in the armor at Raphael's hip, shattering the dragon scales that protected him.

He shoved his arm forward, the red lyrium strength surging, tossing Raphael back and into the wall. The Seeker struck the stones hard and Dominic pressed the attack, his sword again coming over his head as he brought down a thundering strike, his shoulder bursting with strength as the sword cut the air. Dominic could see it, the blade shattering Raphael's head, blood and bone and flesh spraying out around him.

But the Seeker had regained himself, just enough to bring his blades up to stop Dominic's blade, mere inches from the top of his skull. The Seeker's face strained, his arms quivering as he held back Dominic's strength with both of his arms. His elbows bent, his shoulders pulling back, Dominic's sword lowering just enough for the edge to touch the Seeker's bald head before he forced it up and threw Dominic back off of him.

The Seeker's eyes glanced down to his hip, a small gash, but red blood leaking between the rend in his black armor. "You're going to pay for that with your life, boy."

Raphael attacked, his swords whirling through the air. Dominic ducked behind his shield, catching the heavy blows on his shield as Raphael pressed forward, battering him backward. The Seeker's blows came down hard, each strike he caught on the shield sending a pang up his left arm. Dominic swung his sword to try to buy space, but Raphael quickly parried it and threw it away from his body.

Each strike seemed to fall harder, faster, the Seeker gaining momentum with each strike. Dominic lowered himself more behind the shield, sparks flying, wood chipping as the twin swords landed strike after strike.

Dominic forced his right hand forward, a lunge to try to get between the furious strikes. The red-wreathed sword bit into his forearm, a deep cut that caused him to lose his grip on his sword. The combination was fluid, fast. The next slash slammed against the shield, a cross-slash that followed threw it wide off his body, the sword bit his thigh.

Dominic gasped.

His eyes dimmed, falling down. Raphael's left sword stood in his chest, the blade plunged deep between his ribs, piercing the very breath out of his lungs. Red blood bubbled around the sword.

He couldn't feel anything. His head felt like a thousand pounds, his body suddenly weak and weary. He could feel a jolt, a shock running through, a vibration through the numbness that filled his entire body.

His mind cleared, the red lyrium silent. In that moment, there was only one last thought in his mind.

"_A knight must not flee from his duty, his service and his oath, not even in the face of death."_

Raphael's right arm raised above his head, so slowly, the sword fluttering like a feather through the air in Dominic's dimming vision. The other blade pulled back, the pressure from his chest releasing as the point withdrew from his ribs.

Dominic swayed on his feet. His eyes went dark.

The sword came crashing down, shearing the breastplate and cutting across his chest. The force of the blow spun Dominic, his body slammed to the ground from the impact.

His body did not move.

He did not draw breath.

A red river of blood snaked across the stones.


	34. Chapter 34

**Thirty-four**

Sylanni's fingers fell still, the glass slipping out of her grasp as the young warrior fell.

His body was thrust to the ground by the second blow, his arms and legs made no movement to try to break his fall. His body bounced on the ground, rolling and coming to rest.

His chest did not move. His hands and feet were still. He was silent. Blood stained the floor.

The young man, Dominic, was dead.

From the instant Sylanni had seen him in the doorway, she knew she had to hurry. There was no way the boy could fight the Seeker. She had forced herself to her feet, pain flaring in her wounded flank. She shoved aside the blaring pain, grabbing powerful salves and smearing them into the wound to try to staunch the agony and the blood. Her left leg throbbed, the deep cut in her thigh trembling as she placed her weight back upon it.

She heard the pained gasp, a moment of surprise, the wide-eyed look of shock on the boy's face. Her face blanched. She had lost companions before, other Wardens killed in attacks in the Deep Roads. But this was different. The Wardens had given their lives to the cause. Dominic was merely a child, a man not even in his prime.

"You… I…" she stammered, unable to process. Dominic's lifeless body had rolled in an awkward shape, his shoulders and head twisted, his left arm splayed at an odd angle out to the side. The blood ran across his outstretched arm, a red river forcing through his still fingers.

Raphael turned back, shaking his swords to throw the blood off the steel. The arrogant, snideness he had upon his face was now gone. His eyes were hard, his mouth tight and showing pain. Dominic had landed one good blow upon his hip and Sylanni could see the subtle shift in his weight as he favored the wound.

His eyes were locked upon her now, intending to finish what he had started. Sylanni dropped the bottle, smearing the rest of the oily paste on her tabard and grabbing her daggers. She winced, the wound still burning from the red lyrium corruption of his blades. Raphael was wounded, but she was wounded worse.

Her eyes were still upon Dominic's body, the broadsword lying on the floor without an owner, the shield that had clattered to the floor. The curls of his strawberry hair, the blood that continued to pool as it leaked before him.

"He was just a boy," Sylanni said, hate upon her tongue. She could feel the rage boiling inside of her, a fire that was pushing it's way through her stomach, pangs like punches in her gut. Her stomach twisted, sickened, clenching.

The song was there, coursing through her temples. So loud, so fierce. Demanding.

_Come unto me._

Her chest heaved, her breath huffing, air growling through her clenched teeth. Her hands tensed around the grips of her daggers, the flames of the magical runes swirling over the short steel. She could feel sweat breaking upon her, tendons tightening.

_We are one._

The sickness pervaded her, the corruption boiling in her blood. Her stomach was roiling, she could taste bitterness in the saliva in her mouth. Her eyes did not blink, her vision sharpening and narrowing. She could feel drums in the distance, pounding, beckoning in her head.

Her pulse quickened, matching the drums and they sped up, her breath short and shallow, burning. The corruption surfaced, the strength spreading through her arms. The blazing wound in her flank dulled, fading to numbness, the agony burning away into rage. Her muscles relaxed, limber, her entire body swaying, fluid.

There was power in the taint. It was why the Wardens took in the darkness, a power necessary to hold back the evil. The taint ate the soul, eroded the body, corrupting the form and replacing it with the sickness' twisted image of perfection. In the end, the Wardens denied it.

Sylanni did not deny the taint now as the poisoned blood bubbled through her. She surrendered herself to the corruption, turning over her mind, letting the dark power grip her.

The horde had torn through the Brecilian campsite ten years ago, fangs and claws and twisted steel ripping, tearing, burning her people. The darkspawn knew nothing but destruction and pain, they knew nothing except how to destroy and despoil.

They were strong and fast. The shrieks that had crashed through the wood moved with wicked grace, so smooth and calculated, fluid, as they wove through the camp, cutting down women and children. When the camp was lost, when defeat settled over them, she had turned on her heel and ran.

But Sylanni could never outrun the Blight.

Her eyes rolled, her arms twisting involuntarily as the darkness pervaded her, taking control of her body. A wail, a shriek, escaped her throat as her head rolled back, the poison engulfing her.

Her body lurched forward, arms and daggers dragging behind her as her legs beat the stones, each step pressing hard off the balls of her feet, closing the distance between them.

Her daggers clashed with the Seeker's blades. She threw strike after strike, the flurry of blows constant, so quick that she did not follow. Her eyes darted left and right, locking upon Raphael's blades, shooting to find the next opening, searching out the weak point and her arms flying to the mark.

Her arms and legs moved, but she did not feel them. The rage exploded with each strike, her arms crashing heavily down, her feet always moving forward.

Raphael backed, parrying blows, counter-striking. Sylanni could feel the jolt of force, blows striking her armor and cutting her flesh that she did not register. Still her daggers whirled, her feet pressed the ground, she moved forward.

Her vision blurred, her arms and the red flames of the daggers a swirl of color and motion before her. She moved as if in a daze, her body on automatic, a putrid sickness pulsing through her chest, her body burning like black pitch set ablaze upon the enemy.

"_I am the monster."_

There was a jolt through her, her right arm locking, stopping, the motion ceasing in a sudden burst. Her mind lurched ahead, pulled from the blur and into the moment.

Her dagger was plunged into Raphael's heart. The flames burned, the smell of scorching flesh filling her nostrils. A painful groan escaping from the Seeker's lips.

Sylanni stood mere inches from the man. His swords hung in his hands at his sides. She had broken through his guard, somehow, planting herself before him, close enough to drive the dagger home. Her eyes moved, darting quickly as everything else seemed so slow around her.

Her armor was tattered. She was covered in blood. Raphael stood still, the dagger in his heart stuck like a key in a lock. She turned her wrist slowly, the knife groaning through the vital flesh below. Raphael screamed.

She lifted her left arm, the weightless limb floating slowly as it came up, the second dagger as bright as the blazing hearth. It crossed her vision, her arm bloody and cut, bits of leather and cloth dangling from the mangled limb. She could feel the heat of the knife as her arm crossed in front of her face, the dagger hovering near her right temple.

Sylanni looked at Raphael, his eyes clenched in agony, the cords of his neck tight as his head twisted toward the sky, straining to battle the pain. She felt nothing for him.

The dagger darted left, the blade raking his throat, red blood exploding from the gash.

She withdrew her right dagger from his heart and drove her hand into the center of his chest, knocking him back.

Raphael du Valen stumbled on his feet, dropping his swords. The blood ran down his neck like a waterfall and he fell to a knee, his eyes lifting just enough to look upon her face, filled with disdain. His lips quivered.

The Seeker fell forward, flat against the ground.

Sylanni stepped back, stumbled, and vomited forward, spewing acid, blood and black filth from her lips. Her throat was on fire, horror washing through her as she looked upon the disgusting substance she retched. Her hand rested on her stomach, pressing down as she purged the darkness from her.

As the influence of taint withdrew, she could begin to feel the pain from new wounds, the raging fire in her flank once more. Her stomach burned with sickness, but she forced herself to stumble forward, sliding her daggers into the sheaths, her hands fumbling behind her to find the right spot.

She bent down, picking up Raphael's corrupted longsword. The rune was still alight, the corrupted red energy still wrapped around the blade, red electric bending up and down the steel. She put it in her left hand, her right hand covering the wound at her side as she dragged herself across the chamber.

The shield around the blood mage snapped with a fierce magical energy. The mage inside was sleeping, defenseless except for the barrier. As Sylanni tried to touch it, it shocked and scalded her fingers. But it was only magic, and even the most powerful spell could be broken.

"May the Dread Wolf devour your soul," Sylanni cursed, lifting the point of the sword and thrust it toward the barrier.

The point Raphael's blade hit the bubbled barrier as if she had struck a wall. The red energy of the rune bent around the surface of the sphere. Sparks jumped around the point of the blade and the bubble strained under her pressure. Sylanni grabbed the grip of the sword with her second hand, braced her feet and shoved forward with what strength she had left.

The magical barrier screeched. The sparks thrown off it were more furious but the walls of the barrier began to buckle. Sylanni gave one more jolt and the barrier buckled inward, the sword drove in toward Carissa before the entire spell ruptured.

The force of the barrier breaking threw Sylanni across the room and the explosion of white and blue light threw the benches and tables into the air, shredding the wood as if it was cloth.

* * *

Carissa was laughing and screaming all in one horrible symphony that was fading quickly to Anya's ears.

Anya closed her eyes, preparing for the end. Her blood magic had started the journey. Carissa's had ended it. Who would find her dead on the cold stones of the prison floor? Who would miss her when she was gone?

The pressure at her shoulder lifted.

The fire magic sputtered and Carissa stumbled backward as if someone had given her a strong shove to the chest. The blood mage lost her grip on her staff and it clattered to the ground. Carissa looked dazed, touching her palm to her forehead as if a sudden migraine had struck her.

"_Sylanni!" _The thought shot through Anya's pain-addled mind.

Anya struggled to open her eyes, not yet ready to submit to her end. Her strength was fading, but she reached out with her mind, using her sixth sense to connect to the energy she could faintly feel in the blood spilling from her wounds. She could feel the presence of demons everywhere around them, obviously drawn by the wild display of magic and blood magic Carissa had been releasing. The dark presences surrounding the barrier, spectators crowding the arena watching the combatants battling for their very lives.

"_Maker, give me just long enough before these demons claim my soul," _she thought as she untangled the arcane chains blocking the blood. The strings fell away, she touched the well of power deep within her lifeforce.

She tried to remember the lessons the demon had taught her long ago, foolish nights spent listening to the voice in her head, learning the secrets and intricacy of how to exploit the blood the coursed through her veins. She had always told herself she would not use it like Uldred had. Like the others had. She swore to herself would keep the knowledge locked away, hidden in some deep cavern of herself, only there to draw upon in dire need.

This. This was the situation before her. The justification she had cooked up to try to make peace with the realization that she had done something terrible and wrong in her life. It had only been a way to cope, a foolish promise that she relied upon to keep her from confessing her sins to the Templars and accepting their judgment. They would have killed her, certainly, or worse, made her Tranquil. Instead she lived the lie, looking herself in the mirror and fooling herself into believe she wasn't a blood mage.

The power was dark, tainted, the techniques steeped in ancient mechanisms and methods stricken from the world outside the darkest corners of Tevinter.

She broke a barrier on the blood, a flood of power coursing through her. The magic came in a torrent, so much stronger than mana, so much stronger than lyrium. Anya pushed deeper, cracking the next seal. She sought out the power deeper and more complex than she had ever touched before.

From the corners of her eyes, she could see the shadowy figures of shades creeping closer. Frantically she tried to remember the process. She had never pushed so deeply into blood for this kind of power and her mind stumbled forward in equal parts speed and desperation.

She broke the second seal, the rush of power blocking the pain away, replaced by purpose as she plunged another layer deeper. She could feel a raw energy pulsing through her body and arcing across the pools of blood below her shoulder. She fumbled through the third seal, another blast of power beckoning to her.

Carissa was coming out her daze and begin to straighten. Anya was tangled in the fourth seal, struggling to unlock its power. Carissa lifted her head, blinking her eyes as if she had just awoken from a fierce punch.

"_No time left! This will have to do!"_

Anya rolled onto her left hip, sitting up as best she could. She tried to lift her left arm, but there was no response from her gravely wounded limb. She jerked her body enough for bones of her useless arm to brace her body upright enough to launch one final spell.

She stretched out with her right arm, fully extending her hand and stretching each of her fingers as far as out as she could get them in a fan. Her vision was blurred and darkening at the corners, but she could see her enemy's form in the Vs between her thin and trembling fingers.

A shrill shriek filled the void of the Fade, a high-pitched scream that nearly paralyzed her. The shades broke, obviously fleeing something more powerful on its way to claim these mages. Her muscles seized and her mind was nearly frozen by the thought of what she was about to unleash.

"Carissa!" The blood mage's attention snapped to the slumping Anya on the ground. Her vision locked on the outstretched hand and the pool of pulsing blood. Behind Anya, the greenish-black clouds of the Fade were swirling and drawing behind the weaker mage, bends of green lightning snapping off in rhythm.

"_Maker, guide me!" _Anya thought and brought the energy to her palm, calling everything she could, pulling both the power of the blood and the Fade around her. She threw herself completely open, allowing every ounce of power to enter her.

The magic began to swell across her hand in a raging ball of lightning, white-hot with purple tendrils of electricity arcing off the sphere. The pools of blood under her boiled and evaporated in a red steam, fueling the massive spell. The Fade rushed in like a river. Whatever else may flow in, she hoped it was only too late after the magic destroyed her foe.

The ball of lightning shook and pulsed. The ball of lightning continued to grow, too strong and too wild for her to control any longer. The purple bolts raging inside the sphere broke free. The Fade erupted with lightning.

The spell was wild, uncontrollable for a mage with Anya's talents but she pushed with all of her willpower to shape it forward. Lightning licked across her and burned her face and cut her clothes as her entire body shook.

The spell flew true, forced forward just enough by Anya's will. Carissa, still stunned from whatever had rocked her earlier and perhaps from surprise and fear of the spell, could not move as the electricity washed over her. The blazing bolts tore through her like a thousand spears, burning away her flesh.

If she screamed with her last breath, no one could hear it over the thunderous rage of the Anya's beam of lightning.

Anya screamed as the magic spiraled out of control, her body unable to cut the flow. Her hand jerked upward as lightning spilled into the sky, a dome of bolts that flew where they will, sucking all of the power of the Fade around her. The blood had been expended, but the magic fueled itself now, bolts ripping through the floating islands of stone and shattering and burning earth as if it was dried grass in a flashfire.

The force of the spell pinned her back to the ground. She closed her eyes and gritted her jaw, using her mind to fumble through the raging storm of the Fade in a desperate attempt to seal off the power. The consciousness of demons was everywhere and the heat of the spell was making her dizzy. Anya bent her fingers, the lightning faltering and she felt out the pinhole she had punched in the dyke that had turned into the torrential flood. One chance, and she forced her will into her right hand, closing her fingers into a tight fist as she jammed shut the valve of power she had drawn upon from the raw Fade.

With one punch of force downward across her broken body, the spell extinguished.

Anya took a breath. Then another. She could feel burns and tingling slashes from where her own lightning had clipped her. But she drew a third breath.

Still alive.

As she drew her fourth breath, the air froze in her lungs and her body was gripped with paralysis as the shadow loomed over her body.

"My, myyyyy. What terrifying magic from one so smalllll."

It had been ten years, but Anya still remembered the sensation vividly. Her breath was choked in her throat, her body still and unable to move, her mind suddenly blank except for one emotion.

Fear.


	35. Chapter 35

**Thirty-five**

Her veins were filled with ice and her mind was screaming for her to run, but she could not move.

Anya was frozen as the Fear Demon loomed largely over her.

It's multiple arms squirmed in delight, tentacles feeling the air around its deathly thin, bony body. The demon hovered just slightly over the ground. The magic around it cast a wide field, pinning her still.

"I have been waiting a long time for thisssss," the demon hissed, bending low to brush her cheek with its skeletal fingers. "So long I sat waiting, eating all your fearrrrr. Growing so strong, so much powerrrrr. I am now what you made me, Anyaaaaa."

The demon touched her gaping wound, sickly green light emanating from his palm and mending the bleeding gash. Its fingers crawled like worms across her body. "Don't worry, I won't let you perishhhhh," it said. "We will go back, togetherrrrr."

Anya's eyes darted back and forth. Her mind was racing. She wanted to run. She looked for options. She was too weak. She couldn't stand. She couldn't cast. Her heart was racing. Her breath was choppy.

She hadn't felt this way since she was a child. She hadn't feared since, since…

"Yesssss," the demon said. "Yesssss. Now you rememberrrrr."

The fear demon glowed, his monstrous form shifting and changing. His body contracted, shrinking, transforming into a human shape. The light faded and next to her was a kneeling boy.

"Don't worry, Anya, it's me. Don't be afraid. Remember, I helped you. All those years ago. You were so afraid, and I helped make you not afraid any more," Po said.

Anya's lips opened slightly. "The spell," she weakly croaked.

"That's right. You wanted my help. So I gave you the gift of blood magic. In return, I took all your fear away. I stole it before it could make you afraid. I waited, waiting for my chance to come back to your world," Po said. "There's so much fear there. I can make it all go away. People don't need to be afraid."

Anya wanted to spit, wanted to fight and scream. But she couldn't. She wouldn't beat the demon like that. He had been cunning. He duped her as a child, without her even knowing.

She never understood how she knew blood magic, she just did. She kept it hidden and secret from the other mages and the Templars for so long. She buried it deep inside of her.

But all that time, she had been the puppet of a powerful demon. It shielded her in order to gain its own power, hoping one day to possess her. That day had now come.

"If you possess me, they'll find you out," Anya said. She doubted she could trick this demon, but it was the only option she had left. Po craned his head to the side. She had his attention. "I'm a mage. They're always watching out for mages as it is. But if you possess me, it will transform my body, turn me into an abomination."

Po continued to listen. Then he shook his head. "No, I'm too strong. I can control the transformation."

"But what if you can't? You'll inhabit my body, only to be destroyed within days," Anya said.

Po considered. "No, even if the transformation happens, it will only make others more afraid. As they quake in fear, I will only grow stronger."

_Damn. _Anya scrambled. "You'll be too weak," she said. "I may be powerful here in the Fade with you near at my side, but it's different across the Veil. You saw, how I was locked in the Circle Tower. I couldn't grow my power there. I can become so much stronger if you wait."

Po shook his head angrily. "No! I'm tired of waiting!"

His form shifted, the image of the boy twisting and mutating until the large, spider-like form of the Fear Demon once again hovered before her. "I will have you nowwwww! I will not wait any longerrrr!"

A pulse of magic struck the demon in the chest, knocking him backward.

"You will not take this one!" Jenna shouted, her hand lifted in front of her as it pulsed twice more, powerful waves of force knocking the demon back farther away from Anya.

Jenna stepped before Anya's fallen form, planting her feet firmly in the ground, her staff raised in front of her.

Anya remembered this pose, the same stance she had taken as she stood before her sister in the Circle Tower, standing defiantly against the demon. Golden light shone from Jenna, a power radiating around her. It filled Anya, the crippling fear being pushed out, her body filled with the strength of her own will again.

Jessa crouched low to Anya's side, her hands healing the wounds that she had suffered. She whispered quietly as she healed the slashed and burned flesh. "You've done well, Anya," she said. "Can you stand?"

Her healing had been so quick and complete, much faster than Anya had ever seen the most skilled healers in the Circle accomplish. But she was not truly a mage, she was a spirit and the Fade was her realm. "Yes, I think so." Jessa helped Anya up, lifting her from the ground and the spirit pulled her backward, away from her sister.

"Begone, spirittttt!" the demon hissed. "You are in my realmmmmm. I will claim that mage and you cannot stop meeeee."

Jenna snorted confidently. "Perhaps you do not recognize me in this form, Fear. But I do not scare and I do not falter, not even in the presence of your sickening influence!" she boomed.

The golden light enveloped Jenna, her form changing, the young, female body shifting, growing. She slumped down to all fours, widening, growing until before them stood the proud form a lion, it's large, pristine mane flowing with golden light. The beast was twice the size of a man, powerful, imposing and fearsome in its own right.

Anya could feel pulses of courage gripping her, the aura emanating strongly off the lion. "She…"

"Now do you see me, demon? For I am Valor, and I shall not stand idly by as you molest the creatures of the physical world!" The lion stamped it front left paw into the ground, shaking the Fade. It threw its head back, letting out a glorious roar that echoed through the hollowness of spirit realm.

The Fear Demon floated backward, it's tendrils stretching out, a green aura radiating around it. The demon was horrific, vile and disgusting, enough to make Anya's skin crawl just looking at it. This had been the creature that had been following her for ten years, feeding on the fear she should have been feeling.

The demon raised its arms, three forms bubbling up from the ground. Each of them looked like copies of Anya, pale skin, cuts cris-crossing their arms and hands, blood dripping from the wounds.

"Avatars of Fear," Jessa explained as Anya backed away a step, bumping into her. They reflect whatever the viewer fears most."

They were the image in her mind she pictured when the Templars would come around for random contraband checks, when she would hear about another mage getting disciplined for dangerous practices or when the Templars would leave the tower to hunt a blood mage apostate. They were always looking, always searching, but never seeing _her. _Their enemy was right before them, but they did not see.

There had always been that sensation, that tugging when she was asleep and in the Fade to test herself, to practice and push the boundaries of what fleeting power she could grasp. She denied it, fighting the temptation, shoving it deeper into her core.

"Do not be unnerved," Jessa said. "Valor will protect you. She is equal and opposite to Fear, more than a match for the demon."

The lion pounced forward, it's large claws clashing with the avatars. A giant paw smacked one down to the ground, the body of the great hunter jumping atop it, white fangs ripping the avatar to pieces. The others circled around, firing green bolts of energy that struck Valor in the flanks. The lion spun, its great body knocking the spirit bolts aside. It charged, grabbing another one of the avatars in its jaws, its backs legs curling underneath its chest and tearing it apart with razor sharp claws.

The Fear Demon began to fade, its body disappearing, blinking across the battlefield. Valor struck down the third avatar with ease, but the demon reappeared at its side, sinking its claws deep into the lions flank. The beast roared, turning, swiping at the demon but it had already flitted away.

"You have grown fat and slowwwww," the demon taunted as it flickered around the field. Valor stood still, its feline eyes tracing the movements. "I have grown strongerrrrr. You cannot match my powerrrrr."

"Above you!" Anya shouted, but it was too late. The demon was floating above, chains of sickly green energy bending from its tentacles, wrapping around the lion, snapping like whips as it tangled the great beast. The lion struggled, thrashing in the web or energy. The demon's hand fired bolts of energy down, the magic leaving scorches where they struck upon the lion's back.

Valor roared, great paws stamping the ground, the beast shaking, trying to break free of the shackles. The chains tightened, pulling the lion off its front legs, tractoring it in toward the hovering demon.

Fear floated town, its sharp tentacles stretching forward and biting deeply into the beast's back. Valor roared in pain as the spindly arms of the demon tore into it.

A bolt of lightning sprayed around the demon's head, a cone of electric rolling across it as Anya stepped forward. The staff in her hand was pulling in the magic, a focus for the storm she loosed with her left hand. The demon shrieked under the assault and Anya could feel her blood turning to ice, her right arm trembling to hold the spell as the fear stabbed like daggers through her.

The sensation was overwhelming. For half her life she had been unable to feel, feeling only numbness when she should have been scared. But she could not let it grip her, not like it did as a child, lying scared under her bed in the apprentice quarters. This demon only existed because of her. It was only here because of her. She could not let it continue, no matter how much ice filled her.

"Let… it… go!" Anya screamed, a pulse of magic jolting through her arm as she intensified the spell, pushing forward again, closer and closer to the demon. Her body wanted her to stop, but her mind pushed her feet ahead, one step as a time as she pummeled the demon with magic.

The demon shrieked again and released, its form fading into smoke and blinking away across the Fade. Valor crumbled to the ground, the lion's golden fur stained with blood and burns. Anya ran forward, coming to the lion's side. The spirit struggled to push itself to its feet, but the lion could not stand, legs trembling before collapsing back to the ground.

"He's become … too strong," Valor said in Jenna's voice, the lion's mouth moving as the language spilled from the beast's bloody maw. "I can't fight him any more. … But you can."

"What? What are you saying?"

The lion lifted its large paw raising from the ground, presenting it to Anya. She reached out, touching the lion's paw as golden light began to shine around the beast. "You've grown so much," Jenna's voice said. "Be brave, for me, always."

The body of the lion faded, the light engulfing its form, transmuted to power that flooded into Anya's hand, coursing up her arm and through her body. She could feel the spirit's power within her, the energy surrounding her body like armor, steeling her against the fear. She turned her hand over, her entire body was wrapped in golden light, radiating off her in smoky swirls like heat radiating.

The Fear Demon shrieked, but it did not affect her.

She stepped forward, the demon floating toward her, firing its sickly green bolts of magic at her. But she walked, calm steps one after another. The demon's magic burned away, striking the shell of golden light that wrapped around her.

She raised her hand, the celestial power thrumming through her and fired it forward, a pulse that flowed through the ether like a wall, striking the demon and knocking it back.

"You manipulated me in my darkest hour," she said as she stalked forward.

The demon tried to rise and she fired another blast, the wall of force staggering the powerful demon. It tried to flit away in the shadows, but her eyes tracked it now, the demon leaving a trail of dark energy behind it. She pointed her hand left and let go of another pulse, knocking the demon out of its hiding and back into the jutting stones rising from the landscape of the Fade.

"You cursed me with your vile magic, taking advantage of my fear of what had happened at the Circle Tower to train me to be your host."

The demon tried to move, but she fired another pulse, pinning it to the stone. Its tentacled arms and feelers twitched, feeling the air, scrambling to break free.

"You fed on my fears for years. You stole a part of me, you made me wonder about myself as I lay awake at night, wondering why I couldn't be afraid."

The demon began to plead. "Anya," it said in Po's boyish voice. "I never meant to hurt you."

"No! You won't fool me again!" she pushed the spirit power forward, crushing the demon's form, it squirmed pathetically against the stone, green-black blood oozing from its body as she pressed it against the rock like the insect it was.

Anya was two paces before the demon now as it writhed and squirmed.

"Anya, please," Po's voice pleaded. "I only wanted to help you. You were just a little girl, so scared. I've protected you these years, shielded you against the horror and atrocity of your world. You didn't have to run or be scared. I did that, I did all of that for you."

Anya looked at the demon's sickeningly twisted face, tentacles and slather, cold, black eyes, pale, dead flesh. It was horrifying, enough to strike terror into her. But with the spirit bonded to her body, she could only feel courage and strength to stand.

"No," she said calmly. "You did all of that for you."

She lifted her palm before it's head.

"This, I do for me."

The golden light exploded from her hand, slamming against the demon. It shrieked, the light piercing its body, shredding its form, destroying the very spirit energy that has coalesced to form it in ancient times.

Anya turned her head, the light blinding as it flowed off her body. The shrieking ended, the power inside her faded and the light dimmed. When she turned back, where once the demon was was now only a charred mark upon the stone, greenish smoke floating and evaporating back into the Fade.

The golden light around her was gone and she could no longer feel the power of Valor within her. The spirit, too, had been destroyed, its power expended to neutralize its opposite.

Anya could feel sadness inside her for the noble spirit, sacrificing itself for her. Like the real Jenna, this spirit gave its being to protect her once more. She looked at her hand, completely normal, devoid of the spirit power she had wielded just seconds earlier.

Spirits could reform in time, she had read. Maybe one day, the courage and strength of others would give Valor life once again.

"Thank you," she whispered, hoping the message would get delivered somewhere in the beyond.

Anya turned her head to the storm still swirling atop the stone pillar, the red lightning still snapping through the clouds. Her destination lay within the center of the tempest.

"He is there," Jessa confirmed, the other spirit still with her. "Let us go to him."

Anya bounded up the stone staircase, winding, twisting up the jagged rockface. Red lyrium crystals grew along the edges of the staircase, shining more brightly than any she had seen in the real world. The stink of the lyrium was thick, metallic and caustic as she breathed it into her lungs. She covered her mouth, pushing her way up the stairs as Jessa followed behind her.

With each step up, the temperature amplified, the air hot and thick as if she was walking into a furnace. The wind was howling, swirling around, whipping her hair around her head, blowing lyrium dust that struck like a sandstorm and burned like ashes.

At the top of the stairs, she found Cain.

In the center of the plateau, a large cluster of red lyrium crystals jutted in every direction, the jagged spears at least twenty feet high and several feet wide. The stuck out like thorns, spears jabbing into the storm.

The red lyrium energy crackled, bends of lightning arcing between the central cluster of crystals and those rising in a ring around the platform. They jolted, each bolt running through the central column, electrifying it.

Cain was suspended in the middle of it all, his body the lightning rod in the central of the swirling hurricane, his screams sounded through the storm as each jolt struck, red energy arcing up and through his body. His arms were fettered, chains and shackles forged in black metal glowing red, infused with red lyrium themselves.

This was not real, Anya remembered. This was only the Fade. But while the Circle Tower had certainly been the construct of the fear demon, the scene before her was the manifestation of the struggle and agony Cain was subjected to as the red lyrium coursed through his physical body. This was the Fade, this was his spirit, under constant barrage from the madness of the corrupted lyrium.

Anya pushed her way forward, the wind and heat even more intense as she neared the central column. She covered her eyes with her arm, the stinging dust scratching her face, the overwhelming heat choking the air from her lungs.

The lightning arced, coursing through Cain's body. He screamed, the pain apparent as he howled into the Fade. She stepped carefully over the crystals, the edges cutting her like swords as she carelessly brushed across them. She ignored the pain, climbing deeper into the structure of the crystal.

Cain's body trembled and shook, drenched in sweat, much as she had remembered him in their cell back in Penitence. His face was twisted in pain, his muscles tight, jaw gripped, eyes drawn and unable to open. The lightning snapped twice, two more jolts rocking his body.

Anya was before him now, so close she could feel the charge as another bolt of lyrium energy coursed through him. She grabbed her staff, forcing her magic into the rod. She stepped back from Cain slightly and looked at the dangling chain holding up his right arm.

She twirled the staff above her head and brought it crashing down.

The magic struck the chain, the sound of shattering steel and crystal breaking like glass exploding through the roaring storm.

Anya lurched forward, catching Cain as his body began to fall, his arm crashing over her shoulder. She grunted as she took on his weight, wrapping her arm around him as best she could. She raised her staff again, eyeing the other chain. She swung, breaking the shackle around his other side.

The storm of red lyrium around him ceased instantaneously, the red lyrium crystals around him exploded, red crystal floating like glass in the air. The pieces hung suspended as his body fell..

Anya let her staff drop and lifted her arms to catch him.

The red lyrium crystals dangled in the air like rain frozen in a moment, the heat and madness and intensity of the storm all gone. A soft, cool breeze blew through the Fade, jingling the crystals like wind chimes. The crystals lifted up, floating away like small leaves caught in an updraft.

Anya wrapped her arms around Cain's back, trying to hold him up.

She startled when she felt him move.

The weight of his body lessened just slightly as he found his feet, his arms curling around her, his head resting lightly upon her left shoulder.

"Anya," he said softly, his voice full of relief and exhaustion. "You came for me."

Anya placed her head upon his shoulder too, happy tears in her eyes. "I came for you."

His arms shifted, embracing her tightly as he found the strength to stand on his own. Cain held her close, squeezing her body against him. He rocked slightly, his arms not wanting to let her go.

The Fade seemed still, roiling with battles minutes before and a fierce storm of red lyrium. Now, all was calm, quiet and peaceful. She could hardly believe where she stood, alive, safe and in Cain's arms.

She never wanted that moment to end.

Cain's grip loosened, though, and he began to sink, his body falling down toward the ground. She lowered with him, helping him down softly. She helped place him down on his back, he was so weak and tired. She held his hand tightly.

He mouth turned into a smile as he lowered his head, closing his eyes as his consciousness left him.

Jessa stepped closer, having kept away during Anya's trek deep into the storm of red lyrium. Anya placed Cain's hand carefully on his chest and looked up at the spirit.

"Am I too late?" Anya asked, looking at his face. He was smiling now, but he still looked so pale and sickly and his body still trembled, just like it had in the prison at Penitence.

Jessa crouched down before him, her hand hovering over his head. She closed her eyes, her face blank until she opened her eyes again. "He is very weak," she said. "He struggled greatly. By all means, he should have succumbed to the madness days ago. He is most resilient."

"But is he OK?" she asked.

Jessa looked concerned. "His spirit is so weak here," she said. "That is all I can say. He is strong enough to wake in the physical realm, but his mind is too badly damaged."

"The demon told me if I found him, if I freed him from the grip of the red lyrium, he would live," Anya said. Those were the terms Po had made with her in exchange for the blood magic ritual to bring her here, to track his spirit in the expansive Fade.

Anya frowned and realized now, that it was another trick, one she had foolishly believed. As she listened to Jessa now, she knew it was false. Cain might physically live. Breathing. Existing. But it was just bait, bait to draw her deep into the Fade where the demon could take control of her.

"You, Anya, have weakened too. Your wounds in this plane will take their toll on you when you awaken. I have mended what I can, but you will be deathly weak when you return from the blood magic ritual and your exertion here."

Anya remembered how close she had felt to death as Carissa loomed above her. A mage who is killed while dreaming in the Fade would awake in their bed. But blood magic was a different bond, one that linked the spirit more strongly to the flesh. Jessa was likely correct. She would feel the adverse affects when she awoke. The ritual itself had taken tremendous power for her to launch into the Fade and attempt to find Cain's consciousness.

"I can strengthen you," Jessa said. "Like before. I can bind my power to you. I will purge the darkness and repair you, so that you might carry on."

Anya's ears perked. "The blood magic?"

"Would be gone," the spirit said. "The binding will neutralize any and all corruption."

"But, wouldn't you cease to be, like Valor?" Anya asked.

Jessa looked down at the unconscious body of Cain. Her face grew sad. "When you arrived in the Fade, I took this form because I could sense this woman, this Jessa, was a source of light for you. She was a mentor, a friend, a mother in some respect to you. It was her example that helped you grow, let you believe.

"I could feel your longing to save this man, that you would risk anything to try to save him. But it is not to repay some debt you feel you own his sisters for saving your life. It is not just to help him overcome the adversity in his life. It is love," Jessa said.

Anya gulped, nodding her head, yes.

"Then you already knew that I would try whatever it takes to save him," she said. It had been a trap. She knew it had been a trap and she fell into it willingly. She had to. She had to hope.

The spirit considered Anya, feeling her thoughts. "Yes," the spirit simply replied. "It is why I was drawn to you, to protect you."

Anya grabbed Cain's hand.

"I'm ready to return to my world," she said to the spirit. "And thank you, for everything."

Jessa smiled. "It was not me, but your belief that carried you, Anya."

The spirit waved her hand over Anya, the mage slowly lowering to the ground, where she fell asleep next to Cain.

Jessa looked around the Fade, felt the calm in the spirit world swimming around her. Her companion Valor was gone, returned to the ether. But the mortals had lived, battling valiantly against the darkness set against them. Their lives were filled with horror and torment, but they persevered and coped and they did not give in.

The spirit shed the mortal form she had assumed, her body of white light shining over the two fallen mortals, their fingers intertwined together.

She leaned forward over the body of the mortal. The spirit wondered what it might be like, to transfer her power, to cease to exist again. She had been formed centuries ago, wild energy pulled together by the common belief of mortals working for a greater good. The evils of the world were aligned against them, always, but they carried on, believing in something more than their current plight and their fleeting lives.

It was their undying Faith that first gave her life.

The world had changed, the barrier between the physical and spirit worlds breached. She had weakened in recent years, unspeakable evils befalling their world. Pride, fear, rage, madness - the sins piling one on top of another. Many men and elves had wavered and many had been lost.

If she could give herself to restore that goodness on the other side, it was a good sacrifice to make.

"I give you my power," she whispered to the sleeping mortal. "I only hope that I can repair the damage that has been done. If nothing else, believe in yourself and your own goodness, and you will be redeemed for your shortcomings."

The spirit reached out, planting her hand upon the heart. She gave up her form, the white light filling the body with the power to survive, to persevere and to carry on that which had given her birth.

Faith.

"Live well," the spirit uttered with her final words.

"Brother."


	36. Chapter 36

**Thirty-six**

Cain awoke.

As his eyes opened, he could see the familiar cell underground in Penitence.

The room was not cloaked in red.

He lifted his hands, looking at his fingers and arms that were ringed with white light. His legs too, and his torso, had a slight glow, a shimmer that was slowly fading from view.

The stiffness, the pain, the creeping madness that had gripped his entire body were no longer there. Instead, he could only feel the tingle running through him, an ancient power. It filled him like lyrium, but the feeling was altogether foreign, some strength he had never felt before in his life.

"_Live well, brother."_

The words came through his mind, a whisper across his consciousness. It was a woman's voice, but not Anya's, not one he had ever heard before. But he knew it, somehow. He swore he knew it.

Cain looked up and around the room. It was clearly the cell. But he could swear that he had just been somewhere else, a different prison, trapped and tormented. But then he had been freed. He had been rescued. It had been…

Anya stirred on the ground next to him, waking from sleep. Her face was pained, her hands moving to her left shoulder as she rolled onto her back, she groaned and opened her eyes slightly.

"Anya!" Cain said. He remembered. It was not a dream. It was the Fade. Anya had been there. She had pierced the Fade, to find him and rescue him.

"Cain…" she said weakly. "You're OK."

"Yes," he said, touching himself just to make sure he wasn't dreaming. Raphael had jammed the metal funnel down his throat. He had poured vial after vial of red lyrium down. Cain had felt the poisoned lyrium taking control, the insanity creeping into his mind, the wracking pain as the parasite leached his blood and corrupted his body. He felt none of that now. "Anya, you're hurt."

He leaned forward to examine the shoulder she was holding. Her clothes were not torn, as he moved aside the cloth of the robe just a bit, there were no bruises, no cuts, no signs of any injury. But Anya's face was drawn, she looked as if she had been awake for days without sleep or water.

"I'll survive," Anya said with a weak smile. "As long as you do."

"What happened? How-"

His questioned were cut short as the stones trembled, the walls shaking and quaking. The muffled explosion outside reverberated through the prison. "What is going on?"

"Sylanni came," Anya said. "She called the darkspawn here, to fight the Red Sun."

"Sylanni? Where is she now? And where is Dominic?"

"She went to kill Raphael," Anya said. "Dominic," she glanced around the room before looking back to Cain. "He was supposed to be here, guarding the door."

Cain turned his head. The door was shut, but Dominic was nowhere in the room. Duty was propped up against the wall, along with Anya's staff. The door of the cell was open. He reached down, lifting Anya to her feet, slinging her arm around his shoulder as he helped her walk. She groaned with discomfort, her feet stumbling over one another to walk. "We need to get out of here," he said as he lifted Duty and buckled the belt of the scabbard across his chest. He handed Anya her staff and she took it in both hands, leaning heavily upon it. "I have to find Sylanni. If she failed to kill Raphael, I-"

The door of the prison swung open and Cain tore the sword from his scabbard, stepping in front of Anya to protect her from the intruder.

Through the door came a short elf, carrying a body in her arms. She moved slowly, her body strained, multiple wounds still dripping fresh blood. Slung across her arms was the teen.

Dominic's face was still, his arms and legs hanging limply in her grasp.

"No…" Cain said, sheathing Duty as he stepped forward to help her. He lifted Dominic from Sylanni's arms and the elf collapsed to the ground, her hand cradling a deep wound in her left flank. "Dominic," said in disbelief, his voice cracking. "Dominic, what happened to you?"

The young soldier did not answer. He had a deep, bloodied piercing wound in his gut. Another large, wide slash had sheared his armor. He was covered in blood. His flesh was cold and limp.

"He gave his life, for mine," Sylanni said, her face as blank and unchanging as ever. But her voice was filled with sorrow and regret and she did not take her gaze away from the soldier, even as Cain laid him down upon the floor. "I wish it had not been this way."

Cain had wanted him to stay. Dominic had argued, fiercely, to come. This was an outcome he had seen, one Dominic had embraced as a possibility. He should not have been here. He was too young, too inexperienced.

Cain's fingers rolled into a fist, frustrated at his own lenience. Another young man, another companion, another friend, dead.

Sylanni grimaced as she pulled another bottle from her belt, spilling the contents onto her side and fumbling inside her packs for a bandage. She had carried Dominic back before tending to her many wounds. "The Seeker is dead," Sylanni said as she poured a bottle of clear liquid into the large wound at her side. "The mage is also dead. Her barrier exploded and threw me across the chamber. When I regained myself, she was slumped over, dead."

Sylanni looked at Anya, who only nodded, too tired and weak to say anything.

"There are others here," Sylanni said. "Besides the darkspawn. The explosions are magic. I heard horns and shouting that is neither beast nor monster. I assume it is your Inquisition."

Sylanni wrapped a bandage around her waist, tying the gauze roughly at her side with another grimace at the pressure. "The fortress is empty. Everyone is below fighting. I would not recommend going below now. There is a chamber inside the volcano, not far from here. It will be safer passage," she said. "I can show you the way."

Sylanni stood back up. Cain couldn't even understand how she was still walking as the white bandage began to stain with red-black blood. She had another large gash across her thigh and several other smaller wounds. Her battle against Raphael must have been brutal. If Sylanni looked this bad, he didn't want to imagine what the Seeker looked like.

"Let's go, before anything else can go wrong," Cain said as he looked at Dominic again. There was no smile upon his lips, but he almost looked at peace.

He helped Sylanni to her feet. Her armor was in tatters and he once again noticed the many scars on her face, cuts from years past of blades and claws that marred her hard, flat features. There were new cuts, new slashes that would heal, new stroke in the grisly painting of her face. But the fire-red lines of her Dalish tattoo were still the more vivid. Her usually steely eyes were now filled with equal parts sadness and triumph.

Sylanni hobbled across the room, embracing Anya, who Cain now realized was crying too as she looked at Dominic's corpse upon the floor. Sylanni whispered something to her, something Cain could not hear, and Anya nodded, then turned her face away. They wrapped their arms around each other, leaning heavily on Anya's staff and began to move toward the doorway leading deeper into the mountain.

Cain bent, lifting Dominic again. The teen felt so light, so tall and scrawny, weightless despite the remains of the Templar armor he wore. Cain turned, walking quickly toward the others.

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING, CAIN WYGARD?"

It was a booming voice, thunderous, distorted though as if a crowd of people were all screaming at the same time. There was a rumbling to the ground, a crashing of metal behind him. He turned his head.

A lumbering juggernaut slammed through the opposite door, grotesque red lyrium crystals bulging from human flesh. The narrow stone stairway crumbled as the monster crashed through, oversized body smashing and slashing through the rock, bursting down the rough-cut stairs.

In the center of the red lyrium, the form of a man was being eaten alive by the crystals that were growing before Cain's eyes.

Raphael du Valen.

The red lyrium was growing right before his eyes, crystals creep up and down his arms and legs, lengthening, smaller crystals popping up around them. His skin moved as if there were creatures crawling under it, a large tumor swelling at his right shoulder, shifting and moving.

His throat had been cut, but where his blood had flowed out there was now a beard of red crystals jutting from his neck. Lyrium had clogged the wound. There were red crystals also jutting from a hole in his chest, shooting out at jagged angles.

But at his heart, there was a hole where red lyrium did not grow. Instead, there was a shining white Chantry sunburst, blazing, burning through flesh. The red lyrium wrapped around it, but could not consume it. Where the crystals had cut his armor, Cain could see flesh marred with hundreds of overlapping scars, carefully drawn lines painted into the flesh.

The tumor at his shoulder burst, red lyrium exploding out of it. The pus, blood and red lyrium slop splattered across the walls and ceiling and beginning to expand as the lyrium quickly consumed the organic matter. The bloody, raw flesh upon his shoulder quickly glazed over with a new, glassy red sheen. Raphael roared as the bursting bubble rocked his body, his eyes filled with red light and red light spilling from his open maw. Cain could not help but remember Knight Commander Meredith, how she had been consumed by the red lyrium just moments before her death.

"Impossible," Sylanni said. She and Anya had come back to his side, each of the women standing just behind him, the elf to his left, the mage to his right. "He was dead. I severed his heart and cut his throat."

The hulking juggernaut roared, part Raphael's scream, part wailing shriek, part thunder. Raphael's head turned, his neck twisting at odd angles. His right arm had been completely consumed by the red lyrium, the limb now a long, jagged crystal that looked as sharp as any sword.

Years of exposure to red lyrium had been held at bay by his resistance as a Seeker, the corruption dormant in his body for so long. As his life sputtered, the resistance fallen, the red lyrium had seized its opportunity, claiming his blood. The lyrium rushed through him, years of waiting, biding. The man did not live, but the lyrium lived through him, the parasite controlling the host.

Anya lifted her staff, ready to fight, but Cain turned his head slightly to the side. "No," he said. "You're both too weak to fight." He turned his head left. "Sylanni, can you take Dominic?"

The elf looked as if she wanted to protest, but she winced, and nodded. She knew as well as he did that she could barely stand, much less fight. "I shall do what I can."

Cain transferred the young man's body to her arms. "Make for the surface," he said. "Don't come back for me, whatever happens."

Anya did not move and Cain turned to her as he pulled Duty from the scabbard with his left hand. His right hand touched her upper arm. "It's OK, Anya," he said. An unusual confidence swelled through him. The hulking brute stood before them. But he did not fear it.

"You've done your part. This is my fight now."

He leaned forward and kissed her cheek and her posture relaxed. She slumped, planting the staff on the ground and once more leaning heavily on it. She tried to smile, but there was so much sadness upon her face that she could not manage to lift the corners of her mouth. "Be careful, Cain."

Crystals were protruding from under the Seeker's skull, like a crown of red thorns upon his head, trickling down and growing through the sides of his face.

Cain grinned as the two women departed, taking a step forward to Raphael. The juggernaut roared again, bending forward, spraying slather that splashed upon the ground, burning and crystallizing upon the stone floor before Cain's feet.

"_Alright Dagna, time to see what your rune can do," _Cain thought as he pushed his power into the sword, the pale light jumping into being, wreathing the blade. His muscles felt loose, strong, his body rejuvenated as if he had had a good night's sleep. Perhaps who should have been afraid or nervous staring down the juggernaut, but his blood was pumping, filling him with a battle-high.

The rapid transformation was horrific, the red lyrium swallowing the remains of the man alive. What was left of Raphael's body twisted and warped, flesh bulging and shifting, tendons and bones snapping as the red lyrium rearranged his parts to his liking. The man's face was dead, nothing but red light shining from behind his eyes.

"You have corrupted this world for long enough!" Cain shouted, not really sure if he was yelling at the man or the lyrium. Now, the monster before him was both, but neither. "You'll get no mercy from me!"

Raphael's head twisted, the legs now coated in crystals. It stomped down on the ground, sending a tremor through the floor. His neck bent at a right angle, the mouth opening with red light pouring out of it. "YOU WILL PERISH!"

The juggernaut raised its left arm, still looking somewhat like a human arm, the dead fingers twisting, the pale blue light springing around them. The Seeker power flowed, just as it had done in the main hall during their arrival.

"BURN!"

Cain's arms crossed across his body defensively and he winced in expectation.

Except this time, Cain did not burn.

He looked at the light, recalling the agonizing pain as the lyrium inside him went aflame. His body had been crippled, unable to move, fire coursing through his veins. But now, nothing.

Cain hadn't realized it before then, but he didn't feel the longing, calling, begging hole within himself. He did not feel the power or madness of the red lyrium. But he also did not feel the longing, distant humming of the blue lyrium either. For the first time in years, he felt whole.

He reached inside himself, feeling the familiar rush of the Templar power within him, but not the lyrium that had always accompanied it.

Cain planted his foot against the ground, calling up the power, letting the anti-magic flare around him. White fire surrounded his body, flames surrounding him as the holy power coursed through him. It felt so strong, stronger that before, but he called it forth with ease, the flowing power coming with little thought or exertion.

"WHY AREN'T YOU BURNING!" the juggernaut boomed, dropping its arm. It raised its other arm, the wickedly sharp red lyrium sword screeching as it grazed across the floor, leaving a cut in the stone. It stamped its bulbous leg down again, bellowing. "I WILL DESTROY YOU!"

Despite his better judgment, Cain charged.

The juggernaut swung the blade at him as he approached and Cain caught it upon Duty, the sword holding true. The rune and his power combined were enough to hold back the blow, although the force nearly wrenched the blade from his hands. He shoved it back, slashing, the blade shattering crystal like glass as it connected with the arm. Cain raised the blade again, but was hit from behind, a strong bludgeon across his back that sent him flying through the air, crashing hard into the wall.

The breath had nearly been knocked from his lungs by the force of the blow and he turned around, just in time to slip aside as the red blade thrust forward. The point pierced deep into the stone and veins of red lyrium corruption instantly began spreading through the cracks of the broken wall.

Cain slammed Duty down, shearing the end of the blade off in a strong stroke. The crystals broke, the arm recoiling, new crystal immediately growing over the shattered stub, regenerating the arm.

Raphael's left arm had transformed, now a large swinging cudgel. The juggernaut whipped it around and Cain rolled forward, under the slow, powerful strike as it smashed the wall behind him to pieces as if it were made of wood. He cut right, landing a deep gash in the other arm and he charged forward, pushing toward the fleshy remains of Raphael still in the middle of the armor of crystal.

Its torso began to glow as he approached, large crystals jutting out of the chest and then firing off like arrows toward Cain. He swung Duty, deflecting one as he twisted, but two more punctured his breastplate, the crystals striking as hard and as deep as crossbow bolts. He could feel the steel bending, the ringmail underneath just barely catching and stopping the missiles before they could puncture his flesh.. Cain staggered backward from the force as the right arm, still repairing itself, swatted him aside like a fly.

Cain skidded across the floor toward the jail cell, pain shooting through his left shoulder where the blow had sheared his pauldron and cut the rings below.

The juggernaut lumbered forward, its heavy steps shaking the room.

Cain rolled, shoving himself to his feet again and bringing his sword up just in time to catch the red lyrium blade once more. He held it as the juggernaut's body grew, forcing, pressing the blade down. Cain's arms began to buckle under the pressure and he flared the anti-magic harder, drawing upon the arcane strength to bolster him.

For a third time, the cudgel struck him, a powerful punch that lifted him off his feet, tossing him backward across the room. He bounced on the ground and doubled over. Cain held his hand across his gut, sharp pains shooting through him.

Another spray of red lyrium arrows shot out and all Cain had time to do was turn his head and bring up his arm to cover his face as the razor-sharp crystals punched through his armor, biting into his flesh. He could feel hot pain stabbing in his chest.

He lifted his head, hearing the whoosh of air as the cudgel back-handed him, knocking him aside to the right, into the bars of the jail cell where he had been kept for days. His back struck the hard metal, the wind forcing out of his lung as he slid to the ground, his chest gasping for breath.

The juggernaut turned, lumbering, raising the large sword up. Cain weakly hoisted Duty before him, but he knew he did not have the strength to defend the incoming blow.

An explosion of fire hit the arm, sticky clumps of flame spilling across the juggernaut. Small balls of lightning snapped across its chest, breaking upon the impenetrable red lyrium armor with no effect. The juggernaut stumbled backward a step, another burning flask breaking upon it body.

The juggernaut roared, body crouching down and arms covering the human host at its core as more lightning sprayed across it. Sylanni and Anya hadn't heeded his order. He was thankful for it.

Cain's chest heaved, air filling his lungs once again. His body ached, he could feel several red lyrium crystals stuck in his right flank, but he ignored the pain. He grabbed the metal bar behind him to help pull himself up.

As his hand made contact with the bar, the red lyrium runes upon them flickered and sputtered, fading to darkness. The red energy sapped from the inset crystal, spiraling like smoke around his right arm.

Cain looked quizzically at it, feeling the strength of the red lyrium coursing through his right arm much as it had before when the sludge had filled his body. But he did not feel the madness, the rage, the sickness from it. It did not sink inside him. It did not sicken him as it had before.

He quickly reached, grabbing one of the crystals jutting from his breastplate, wrapping his right hand around it tightly. The crystal glowed, the light sapping out of it, being pulled into his fingers and up his hand. The crystal, devoid of light and life, turned to grey, cloudy glass. His fingers tightened and the crystal crumbled into dust in his hand.

Cain could remember the swirling madness, a violent storm that howled around. The red lyrium attacked, trying to penetrate him, trying to claim him. He resisted, pain and agony shooting arcing through his body, the fury of an ancient, corrupted power trying to break him. Then it had all cleared and he had fallen.

He could feel Anya's embrace around him, her arms, so warm and comforting as she caught him and held him up. But they had not be alone. There was someone else, something else, watching them. He could only see the figure, indistinct in the distance, white light shining so brightly he could not hold his gaze upon it.

The juggernaut roared, throwing spears of red lyrium across the room. The lightning ceased, Anya and Sylanni diving back through the narrow doorway.

Cain stepped before the monstrosity, Duty held low at his left side. He shuttered his Templar power, the red lyrium energy still hovering around his right arm as he stood before Raphael. He could feel a different power welling inside of him, something similar but distinct from the Templar talents he had learned and trained for years. He embraced it.

The juggernaut raised its great blade for an attack but Cain raised his right arm, spreading his fingers as he opened the door upon his new power. The juggernaut seized, and stopped, paralyzed. The red light of the crystals began to glow brightly and pulse, frozen at Cain's command. He tugged. The red began to sap from the crystals, the light swirling from the beast and coming to his palm, the red energy wrapping around his body, swirling and strengthening him.

The juggernaut roared, the crystal turning to cloudy grey as Cain stole its energy, draining the juggernaut of its lifeforce. The great beast sagged, the dead flesh of Raphael growing limp in the core as the surrounding crystals weakened.

The red lyrium surrounded Cain now, bends of electric rolling all over his body. But he was not sick. His emotions were his own, level and calm. Where once the closeness of red lyrium had made his cough and choke, the bitter poison filling his mouth with ash, now he did not feel any of it. He only felt the strength of it, ancient power coursing through him.

He pulled his right hand to the grip of Duty, hands clenched around the sword. He lifted it above his head, transferring the power into the blade, the red lyrium spiraling up around the steel, swirling until the blade glowed fiercely with red power.

He pulled the sword to his right side, wound up and swung.

The blade sheared through dull crystal, shattering stone and flesh and bone as the greatsword cleaved through the juggernaut. The red energy surrounding the sword cut sharper than any man-made edge as it cleaved Raphael. The air filled with smoke as the blade cut, crushing through the monster's left flank, driving through the still-human body of Raphael du Valen and slashing through the right side.

The sword exited the other side, a glowing red line painted through the middle of the lumbering giant. Cain looked, his sword still glowing as it came to rest at his left side.

The light grew fiercer, bursting like flame, consuming the remains of the juggernaut, the crystal igniting and burning away into smoke and ash. The juggernaut bellowed and flailed as it burned, the pure-red flames scorching both up and down from the wound, consuming crystal and flesh as the beast crumbled and smoldered away.

The white sun at Raphael's heart was engulfed in flame, the white lyrium melting and dripping down like paint spilled down a wall as the fire consumed him.

Cain watched, silent and sullen as the red fire consumed the last of Raphael's face, his jaw hanging limp and dead eyes rolling in his skull as black and red ash that fluttered away as it consumed what remained of the man.

In the end, nothing remained except smoke, ash and the puddle of boiling white lyrium on the ground before him.

Cain straightened back up, the monster defeated. He stared at the boiling white lyrium on the ground as the caustic substance burned and sizzled into the stone floor. He breathed a sigh of relief.

The red lyrium hummed on Duty, the energy still engulfing the sword. He lifted the blade, examining it. The energy was not infused into the steel, he could see it pulsing and bending along the exterior of the steel, running up and down the length of the greatsword.

The red began to creep lower, wrapping around the crossguard, slithering down the sword like a snake around a branch. The energy swirled down to the grip and Cain shifted his hand lower, moving it away from the lyrium energy.

Then it lurched, as quickly as an asp. The lyrium sparked on the sword in his hands, a violent pulse that shook his arms. The electric backfed up his arms, the red lyrium energy arcing across his arms, legs and chest once more. The bends snaked up his neck and his face.

The shining, intense power that had coursed through him moments before was gone, but the red lyrium remained.

The red lyrium locked around his body, electrifying him, scorching him with red hot bends. His muscles contracted, paralysis gripping him again. Duty fell from his grasp, the sword clanging on the stone floor below.

And it was happening again. The swirling, violent, tempest. The screaming madness. The agony of the red lyrium had returned.

He clenched his fists, trying to fight it.

But the lyrium clenched harder.

Cain threw his head back, screaming as the lyrium began to eat him alive once more.


	37. Chapter 37

**Thirty-seven**

Anya stirred, her hand at her forehead.

She blinked back into consciousness, her head spinning. Sylanni had shoved her hard out of the way as the juggernaut shot spears of red lyrium at them. She had hit the ground hard, the force of the fall and the exhaustion of throwing whatever magic she could muster.

She stumbled to her feet. The room beyond had quieted of battle, but she could hear screaming.

Anya forced herself through the doorway.

Then she saw him.

"Cain!"

The red lyrium pulsed through him, his muscles were rigid and tingling with a burning pain. His fingers curled into fists. His elbows locked at his sides. His knees buckled. It looked as if all his bones had been replaced by bars of steel.

"Don't come closer, Anya!" he shouted as best he could between his gritted teeth. His jaw was locked. He couldn't blink. His neck and spine were rigid. His entire body trembled.

Anya stopped on her heel, looking helplessly as red light began to spill off of Cain. Electric snapped in the air around him. Plumes of bright red flame seemed to flare off of his entire body.

The sword, ash and bits of crumbled stone around him began hovering inches off the ground. The air crackled, fine tendrils of red lyrium energy bending around him.

He tried to move, but his entire body felt like he was filled with lead. His eyes were wide. He stared in horror at his clenched fists, the buzzing, snapping and flaming energy of the red lyrium engulfing them.

"Cain! What's happening!" Anya yelled. The air seemed to be filled with a violent howling, a shrieking wind that both came from and spiraled around Cain. His eyes began to glow red.

Cain had seen this once before. In Kirkwall. Knight Commander Meredith. Her last moments.

"Run, Anya! Get out of…"

His entire body shuddered. Pain wracked him. His mind raced. His hands were frozen. His knees shook. He couldn't breath.

The energy was spiraling out of control. He could feel the maddening red lyrium filling his body. It snaked into him. It burned everything it touched.

He was foolish, desperate to draw on it. He knew the risks. He knew the price. It had to be paid. For the good of the Inquisition. For the good of all Thedas.

Anya tried to take a step closer, but it was as if she hit a wall as she reached out to him, her hand scorched as it hit the plumes of red lyrium fire burning wildly off of him. She recoiled, holding her fingers.

"Cain! Maker, no!" she cried. "No! Not like this!" Her face was streaked with tears. Her eyes were filled with fear.

Cain could feel the tendrils of madness piercing his mind. Chaos. Blood. So many images flooded before his stuck open eyes, his sight going red and darkening by the second.

Cullen. Lina. Cassandra. The Gallows. Raphael. Anya. Dominic's mother. Redcliffe. Kirkwall. Iron Bull. The Chantry. Dominic. Sylanni. Sera. Harper. Carissa. Chykk. Skyhold. Mont-de-glace. Snort. Orin. Meredith. Mae. His father. His mother. Calen's Roost. Dagna...

Dagna. A brief moment of clarity. What had Dagna said? The red lyrium clouded his mind. He struggled to focus.

""_It allows them to … spit! Yes spit! They can't drink the water and get the good stuff, but they can just force it back out."_

_Force it back out! _

It was his mind, his voice, his will, screaming through the tempest in his head.

Cain could feel himself slipping, but the power was still there, he could feel Templar power deep within him shrouded in the haze. He forced his eyes closed. He dug within himself. It had always been there. It was a part of him. He did not deny it now.

"_Maker, give me strength!"_

He had tried to run from it, but the Templar power was still there, waiting. Lyrium had been the key to open it, but now he could feel the Fade just on the other side. He threw the gates open, letting the power flow through him.

His body wracked and shook as the anti-magic collided with the red lyrium overtaking his body. A shockwave of force blew out around him, pushing Anya back, shattering the stones under his feet, collapsing the ceiling above his head.

The red lyrium flared hotter, the flames growing off his body as if someone had thrown grease upon the fire. Another blast of force. The stones fell and crumbled, crushed to dust as they hit the energy encapsulating him.

_Force it back out!_

He could feel his body, just slightly. He clenched his fists in, tightening every muscle in his body as he crouched lower to the ground. His entire body quaked. He opened his mouth. He screamed.

He pictured Anya in his head. He remembered her embrace, her kiss, the way she had carried him when he was weak. She had traveled through the Fade itself to find him and pluck him from madness.

The red lyrium consumed him, had been consuming him since Haven. He had thrown himself at the world, reckless, without care, ready to break and fall. He struggled to do good, but he could not overcome the overwhelming feeling that he was fading, used up, lost and forgotten.

And then she had happened. Despite his thoughtless actions, she stood with him, she bolstered him and carried him through. She fought the demons that haunted him. When he had left Skyhold, he hadn't cared if he survived. If he perished, it would be the merciful end to his suffering. And then Anya had happened.

Cain wanted to live.

He pushed the anti-magic out toward his skin, the red lyrium pushing back as it tried to consume him. The red energy snapped around him. It resisted. It struggled. He could feel the shell collapsing.

His lungs filled with air. The howling red lyrium forced into his mind. He pushed it out. His body locked. The Templar power wrapped around him. It forced the chaos to his flesh, heat and rage prickling his skin.

He could feel his power collapsing, fading, the lyrium overwhelming it. It blared hotter than his power, battering him back. The shell collapsed. The paralysis gripped him again, red fire creeping up his arms, his fingers growing so, so stiff and stonelike.

"_No, that is not the way!"_

It was a voice in his head, a woman's voice. It was the same voice he had heard when he awoke in the cell as the white light bathed his body. "_Live well, brother," _it had said.

It was a voice he had never heard before in his life, one he never had the pleasure of knowing face to face because of the circumstances. But inside of him, he knew. He knew. His sister.

He could feel the nugget of spirit energy in him, the same power he had drawn upon to sap Raphael of the red lyrium. It shone within him, incorruptible. He could feel the nudging at his will, something beyond his body guiding him, instructing him.

He did not try to force the red lyrium out.

Instead, he took the howling energy within himself.

The tainted power sank within him, pulling into his core. He opened himself, willingly letting the dark energy fill him, consume him, pulling it close to that spark he could feel.

He could feel a different strength course through him now. White fire and light surrounded him. His back arched, his fists crossed at the wrists. His arms shook violently. He was in control. Just slightly. Just for a second. It would be enough.

_Now!_

His arms jerked out to his sides, his mouth opened and he screamed. His voice pounded through his head. The chains shattered. He burned white light like a star.

Red filled his vision. Waves of energy poured off of him, flames and bolts and force cast off of him, exploding through his body. He could feel the lyrium burning in him. It burned the air. It dissipated into smoke.

His nerves trembled. He lost feeling. His scream faded as his lungs emptied.

His eyes went dark.

* * *

As the chamber came down and the flames grew so hot and violent, Anya had run, tears streaking her face.

The entire keep shook like an earthquake. She pressed her back to the wall, her eyes closed. She sobbed. Her mind raced with the Chant. She prayed for Cain. For his safety.

She prayed for herself.

"_Don't leave me alone. Not now. Please!"_

The quaking stopped. Smoke poured through the entryway. The stone at her back was hot to the touch. Everything fell silent.

She stood. She covered her mouth, stepping into the shattered chamber.

The chaotic energy had abated. The air was unbearably hot. It felt as if the room was filled with fire.

She pushed toward the epicenter.

The red lyrium had been consuming Cain. There was nothing she could do to stop it this time.

The fear she had not felt for so long filled her now. She trembled with each step, trying to see through the smoke. She coughed, unable to breathe in the haze. Anya waved her hands to clear the smoke and the clouds parted slightly.

In the center of the room, he was there.

Cain stood, still as a statue.

His body was unmoving, flame still flickering on his body.

She approached closer, reaching her hand out toward him, searching, praying. She trembled with fear. He was so still, so quiet.

Anya jumped as his chest lifted slightly then fell, filled with breath.


	38. Chapter 38

**Thirty-eight**

The pieces had moved substantially on the war table since Cain last saw it.

There were dozens of pieces now upon Orlais, a dagger thrust deep into Adamant Fortress at the edge of the abyss. The rumors were that the Inquisitor had survived another dragon attack and then fallen into the Fade itself, lost to the world. But then the rift broke wide, the Inquisitor, Solas, Cole, Blackwall and the Champion of Kirkwall all returning in one piece.

The Grey Wardens filled the camp around Skyhold, the prize for the effort.

There were now pieces sitting in the Sea of Ash and upon Mont-de-glace. Those were his pieces, the ones he had won for the Inquisition. Barely.

He had clenched his fingers in and out, breathing slowly as the smoke upon the shattered prison of Penitence cleared around him. The final sparks of the red lyrium dissipated and vanished, leaving him standing amidst the ruin, alive.

"Cain! Maker! Cain, you're OK?" Anya had shouted, throwing her arms around him. He cradled her close as she wept upon him, his hands lightly patting her back. He ignored the ache in his chest from the blows he took from the juggernaut as she squeezed him. The good feelings of the embrace were much better than any pain he had even felt.

"It's over, Anya," he said as he planted a kiss atop her head, his lips touching her brown hair. "It's over now."

Sylanni had spoken truly and led them through the volcano, finding a nearby crack that had taken them back to the surface. They had walked across the broken, arid ground of the Sea of Ash, approaching the remains of the Inquisition's army as they carried away their many dead.

Cain walked, Dominic's body heavy in his own hands.

"Perhaps I underestimated you, Sergeant Wygard," Cassandra Pentaghast had said as the soldiers led them to her.

She was sitting, a stained rag wiping blood from her armor. Her sword and shield sat next to her, both still so blood-stained he could barely see the steel below them. If the Seeker ever smiled, she might have done it then. But her approving nod was as close as he could get.

"You were right, Seeker," Cain admitted. "This mission was a mistake. It was only the Warden, luck and a miracle that saved us."

Cassandra did not look up at him as she wiped down the length of her breastplate, smearing another line of black and red blood as she turned her rag over. "There is no such thing as luck, Sergeant. There is only providence." But the Seeker did look up, her face almost looking sad although the hard lines were still there. "I am sorry for the loss of your friend, for what it is worth."

"Thank you," Cain said.

"I do wonder though, how you escaped the corruption of the red lyrium. What happened within the fortress?"

It was a question that she did not like the answer to and had only created many more questions on the long trek back to Skyhold.

Cain frowned as he looked upon the pieces on the map in the southwest of Orlais.

It was a hard-won victory, not glorious by any means. Many Inquisition soldiers had perished in the battle, but they had smashed the darkspawn and the Raphael's red lyrium monsters. The mages laid waste to Penitence, crushing the fortress with fire and force until the canyon crumbled around it. They had stepped back and fired upon the red lyrium fields, the crystals exploding and burning violently, burning the landscape.

The inferno had lit up landscape, red smoke flying into the air for miles as the red lyrium fields burned. But it was not the most haunting memory of that day.

That memory belonged the Lina, the low, painful cry that escaped her as she looked upon Dominic before they dragged him away to the pyre. He hadn't even recognized her at first, the right side of her face was raw and red with oozing burns, her long dark hair had been burn down into a short rough cropping around her head.

But her ice blue eyes were unmistakable. They were flooded with tears, her dreadful mourning moan echoing through the camp. She charged forward, her fists pounding against Cain's chest, wild and weak, screaming obscenities at him. She fell to her knees, sobbing, her hands flopping in the dirt, her body sagging.

"I'm sorry, Lina," Cain had said. "I wasn't there to save him."

"I'll make them pay," she said, her words broken with tears. Her fingers rolled into fists and she slammed the ground. "I'll make them all _pay."_

The flames that consumed the dead that night lit the land, the sky a dark sheet without the light of the moon. Somewhere within the line of the Inquisition dead lay Dominic as the flames consumed his body, sending him to the side of Andraste.

On the return trip home, some soldiers broke away to report to a new outpost in the Western Approach, others headed to the Exalted Plains to reinforce the positions there. Others broke away to head to battle the Red Templars in Emprise du Lion. But Cain, Anya, Sylanni and Lina remained with Cassandra and the last contingent of the army making the long, return march to Skyhold.

Their homecoming was met without fanfare. They crossed under the looming gatehouse of Skyhold, the fields below the great fortresses bursting with troops gathered in the weeks they were away. The repairs on the castle had advanced and merchants, tradesmen, nobles and diplomats poured in and out.

The Inquisition had risen far upon the labors of many men and women doing their part to resist the chaos. As Cain looked at the commanders, the rank and file soldiers, the agents passing them the other way on the path, he wondered what small part they would play in the grand force that was the Inquisition.

He stood over the table, alone, astonished by how far the pieces had spread in a few short weeks.

The door of the war room opened and the others streamed in. Cassandra had summoned him here. She stepped in first, Commander Cullen, Ambassador Montilyet and Sister Nightingale with her. Behind them, Dagna bounced through the doorway.

And then he was there.

The Inquisitor was dressed down in his grey casual outfit. The stubble upon his face was a few days old, his brown hair pushed back atop his head, a slight green light visible upon his left hand as he closed the door behind him.

The advisers circled the table, Dagna tossed Cain a smile but stepped out of the way as Trevelyan approached. He extended his hand and Cain took it, the Inquisitor's firm grip locking around his hand with a single shake.

"Commander Cullen tells me I have you to thank for dismantling that red lyrium cult in the west," Trevelyan said.

"Yes, Your Worship," Cain said with a firm nod. He was honored by the appearance. He did not know why he had been summoned. Cassandra Pentaghast had ordered him to undergo a thorough examination with the Arcanist and after a day of poking prodding, studying and a thousand questions from Dagna, he had not been called since.

"The Inquisition is in your debt, Sergeant," Trevelyan said.

"Thank you, Your Worship."

"Cullen tells me you fight with the greatsword as well," Trevelyan said, releasing his hand. "I heard you two had quite a sparring match before your departure. Perhaps I'll need to take you around the ring myself and see what you can do. And I won't make you wear that bulky Templar armor this time."

"Again with the armor…" Cullen said, rolling his eyes. Cain got the impression the Commander had been teased about their very public duel ever since he left.

"I would be honored, Inquisitor."

"Ahem," Cassandra interrupted, looking annoyed as always. Trevelyan nodded, falling silent. "I have brought you all here to discuss something important concerning Sergeant Wygard. I have reviewed his report thoroughly and consulted with the Arcanist about it. It is about how you overcame the red lyrium after it had been forced upon you. You _should _be dead, or worse," Cassandra said flatly.

Cain didn't doubt that statement was true and was about to speak, but Cassandra raised her hand to stop him. "The mage that was with you, Anya, informed me she had used blood magic to enter the Fade in an effort to help you."

Cain looked as Cullen looked away, trying to hide his disgust. The Inquisitor also did not look particularly pleased, but Trevelyan's face was stoic. Anya had told Cain about the interrogation from the Seeker, although it had been cordial. Everyone had heard the stories about Cassandra's interrogation techniques, most notably the way she had famously abducted and interrogated Varric Tethras in Kirkwall.

She also wielded the power to manipulate lyrium, just as Raphael. Anya had told truth, avoiding any potential conflicts. Cain was not so sure that the Seeker might not have tried to burn the truth out of her if she had resisted or tried to lie.

He wanted to speak, to defend Anya. Blood magic was forbidden, even though she had used it with good intent, and he hoped that she would not be punished for it. They had not separated her from him, or questioned her or jailed her, although Cain did notice the Inquisition's Templars did seem to patrol past their quarters unusually frequently. He tried to think of something to say, but kept quiet, feeling that any statement he might make would only make things worse for her.

"But that is not why we are here," Cassandra said, obviously seeing the internal conflict on his face. "While in the Fade, she was accompanied by a powerful spirit. It had offered to heal her and erase the blood magic from her mind. But she chose to have the spirit instead strengthen you."

Trevelyan lifted his head, perked up by the last statement. But he was the only one, his gaze meeting Cassandra's in understanding. If there was something more to know, he was the only one who knew it.

"I don't follow," Leliana said. "It is rare, but not unheard of. My former companion Wynne was spirit-touched. She even went so far as to pass the spirit to Knight-Captain Evangeline de Brassard at White Spire to save the Templar."

"It is not the same," Cassandra said flatly. "I cannot say much more than this, but I am certain that what happened at Penitence has transformed him.

"Sergeant Wygard has become a Seeker of Truth."

Cullen's eyes were wide and Cain thought he might fall over in shock. Leliana's head twisted, looking sharply at Cassandra in question. "Are you sure, Cassandra?"

"I am positive," Cassandra said simply. "Dagna?"

The dwarf stepped forward, holding a small lead box. "Don't freak out now, OK?" Dagna said, looking back and forth among the others in the room. She slipped her hands into gloves and then lifted the lid, pulling out a small shard of red lyrium. Despite her warning, Cullen jumped back away from the table and the Inquisitor took a pace away as well.

"Have you gone mad?" Cullen shouted. "What are you doing with red lyrium inside Skyhold? I mean, what are you doing with red lyrium at all? How much more of that is in the fortress?"

Dagna waved at Cullen dismissively. "Just a few pieces, just for study. It's all very safe, I think," she said, not sounding very sure. "But don't worry about it, Commander. Just watch."

Dagna turned back to Cain, lifting the shard of red lyrium toward him. "Alright Cain, now do that thing you do. Just like you told me you were able to do at Penitence," Dagna urged.

Cain looked around, all eyes were upon him. "Are you sure Dagna?" he looked to Cassandra. "I almost died the last time this happened. I brought down an entire room around me."

Cassandra nodded.

Cain took a deep breath, looking at the shining red lyrium crystal before him. But he could not smell it, he could not taste it. He did not feel its influence assaulting him. Just like in Penitence, he did not feel it, not like he had before Raphael had forced the red lyrium upon him.

He raised his hand, pointing his palm at the crystal. White light began to shine around his hand, the crystal trembling in Dagna's fingers. Slowly, the glowing red light began to sap from the stone, being pulled out of the crystal and to his waiting hand, the red energy swirling around his hand, just as it had in the dungeon.

The crystal in Dagna's hand was now grey and cloudy and she squeezed her fingers, crushing the weak stone to dust that fell between her fingers to the ground.

"Now," Cassandra ordered. "Cleanse it."

Cain did not understand, but as Cassandra spoke the words, he could feel that power within himself, lighting a flame that had sparked as soon as the red lyrium came to his flesh. He stared at his hand, feeling the wild energy there, the way it swirled, wild and chaotic. He pulled it into his palm, the red light condensing into a small red star floating just before his flesh..

He could feel that pulsing in him again, that familiar feeling that he had just before he had burst within the prison at Penitence.

He shut his fingers, forming a fist around the ball of red energy. He could feel it blink away, the wild power drawn inside of him and stamped out, crushed, extinguished. White light poured out between his closed fist, a slight pulse of force jolting the air around his hand.

He opened his fingers and where once there was red lyrium magic, now, there was nothing.

"Incredible…" Josephine muttered.

"I … I don't believe it," Cullen said, astonished.

Cain was nearly as shocked, looking at his hand, the emptiness there. He had done it on accident, or perhaps on instinct, in Penitence. But now, here in Skyhold, the feat felt natural, a talent that seemed like it was always with him, a part of him.

"A Seeker does not control what powers are bestowed upon them," Cassandra explained. "It is mysterious gift, one that each Seeker must discover for themselves. Manipulation or disruption of mana, heightened physical traits or senses, even a limited ability to read another person's thoughts have all been discovered. Immunity to blood magic and position is a talent shared by all Seekers.

"Manipulation of lyrium is common, although the gift often takes many forms. While I can set the lyrium in a Templar or a mage aflame, it appears the Sergeant is capable of absorbing and cleansing red lyrium," Cassandra said.

"Isn't that dangerous though?" Cullen said, stammering, still in shock at what he had witnessed. "Prolonged exposure to red lyrium is still dangerous. We saw the effects in Kirkwall, the Knight Commander and Varric's own brother. Even some of our soldiers who were standing sentry at the Temple of Sacred of Ashes had been feeling ill."

Trevelyan spoke up too. "That's right," he said. "In the future Redcliffe when Dorian and I were pulled a year ahead in time, even you, Cassandra, had fallen to the influence of the red lyrium."

Cassandra's mouth turned into a scowl. Apparently she did not like to hear of her fate in that future timeline that everyone worked to prevent.

Dagna butted in. "No, it's not like that. The Seekers are resistant to red lyrium to start with. But Cain doesn't even need that resistance. The red lyrium isn't staying in his system. In fact, I don't think it _can _stay in his system. I think he's immune to it, red _and _blue."

Cain hadn't felt the urge, the calling for lyrium since Penitence. He hadn't suffered any of the effects of the red lyrium, but his body did not cry out for the blue lyrium either. The march back to Skyhold he had been lucid, the world vivid and completely normal to him. His mind did not wander or sputter. He hadn't felt so in control of himself since before his initiation into the Order years ago.

"That's impossible," Cullen said. "A Templar does not simply become immune to lyrium," he snorted. "I wish they could. I've been going through hell for how many weeks now because of it."

"I can prove it is true," Cassandra said.

She lifted her hand, a familiar blue light forming around her fingers. She pointed them at Cain, the same Seeker power that Raphael du Valen had wielded. The light grew fiercer as she moved her hand side to side slightly toward Cain. But he felt nothing.

In Penitence that same power had brought him to his knees. And now, nothing. Cain was glad for that, at least.

"As you can see, he is not affected. Now to prove that this is not some mistake," Cassandra said. "Forgive me, Commander." She dampened her power but turned her hand toward Cullen, a dagger of pain shooting through Cullen's face for a moment and then she quickly extinguished the power.

Cullen doubled over, his hands falling upon the war table as he huffed for breath. "Maker's breath," he cursed, lifting a hand to his heart, his fingers clenching around his breast. His eyes were bulging from his head and his mouth hung open as he struggled to breath.

"Remind me never to get on your bad side, Seeker," he said with a cough.

Leliana stepped forward, ignoring Cullen. "Andraste smiles upon us. This is a fortuitous gift, one that we can use to break our enemies."

Cullen smacked the table to get their attention, swallowing and trying to regain his composure. He huffed and stood back up, a pained expression upon his face. "As much as I would like to turn this new ability upon the Red Templars, Cain is a man, not a weapon, spymaster. We cannot simply order him to march out to Orlais and single-handedly crush the Red Templars."

Trevelyan stepped forward. "I agree," he said, turning over his left hand. The mark stretched across his palm like a green knife wound. The green, white and black light swirled within it, crackling and pulsing quietly. The Inquisitor looked at his palm somewhat sad as he perceived the mark. "I would not throw the weight of all Thedas upon his shoulders."

Trevelyan turned his head to Cain and smiled. "It is enough to crush a man," the Inquisitor said. "I speak from experience."

"I'll do it."

The words slipped from Cain's lips before he could think twice about them.

He recalled the Red Templars falling upon Haven, burning the town and putting soldiers and innocents to the sword. He remembered the fields of red lyrium carefully cultivated by the fallen Seeker, the blood of how many used to grow them like crops. He could see Raphael's corpse, alive with light and corruption as the red lyrium engulfed his body, growing and expanding at an unprecedented rate into a giant, bellowing monster.

Dominic had died to stop the red lyrium. Harper and countless others perished fighting the Red Sun. Lina had been permanently scarred.

He could feel the burning rush of red lyrium pouring down his throat, feeling the chaos brewing inside him as the lyrium ate through his body, trying to take control. It had taken all his will just to control his own thoughts from the creeping claws of the cursed substance in his mind.

He could see Knight Commander Meredith, the raw, red power pulsing through her, consuming her, turning flesh to stone as Kirkwall burned around her.

Trevelyan raised an eyebrow to make sure.

Cain nodded. "I will use this gift against the Red Templars, if you will have my service."

The Inquisitor pointed down at the map. His finger stopped at Emprise du Lion, the town of Sahrnia just under his fingertip. "We have numerous reports of sightings of Red Templars here," the Inquisitor said. "We have a forward camp set up, but our forces have not been able to breach much farther than the outskirts of the devastated town.

"I will be moving south to aid the Orlesians in the Emerald Graves," he said sliding his finger south, "while awaiting the peace talks between Empress Celene and Grand Duke Gaspard at the Winter Palace." His finger slid back up to eastern Orlais. "It could be weeks before I am able to deal with the rifts and the Red Templars in the Emprise. I don't want to lose the position.

"I can name you Captain and give you command over a company of troops if you're able to hold the area and keep the Red Templars at bay," Trevelyan said. "You won't be able to do anything about the rifts in the area, but demons aren't the problem there right now. You've already proven yourself capable enough that I trust your ability to assess and handle the situation by whatever means necessary."

Cain nodded, looking over the map. He first agreed to Cullen's mission to be of use, to do what little he could to stop the spread of red lyrium. Now he possessed a greater power, one that could do even more to crush the vile substance before it had a chance to corrupt anyone else.

He didn't relish the thought of going back into battle, the thought of even more young soldiers like Dominic under his care and protection. This war had already claimed so much of the world, he could not stand to see more young blood shed for it. But each man and woman was called to and driven by their own duty, an obligation and calling to fight for something greater than themselves. He could not ask any less of them, or of himself.

Cain stood up from the table, his eyes looking at Cullen, the advisers and Dagna before returning the Inquisitor.

"I can hold the Emprise for you, Inquisitor," Cain said confidently. "But I must ask something in return for this assignment."

"If it is within my power, name it, and it is yours," Trevelyan said.

"Anya is not to be punished or harmed for her blood magic. She is not a threat, and I will take responsibility for her actions, whatever may happen in the future."

Cassandra fidgeted and prepared to speak, but could not get out a word before Trevelyan simply said, "Agreed."

Cain sighed in relief.

There was just one more boon he required of the Inquisitor.

"And I need you to send a message for me."


	39. Chapter 39

**Thirty-nine**

The flames on the candles bounced from side to side, their light bending around the large stone statue.

Cain sat before the icon of Andraste, as he had for the last hour. He sat on the floor, his knees bent, the bottle of whiskey and the glass on the floor between his legs. He had poured a drink, but it had sat there, untouched. He had thought a walk along the ramparts in the brisk, midnight air of Skyhold might calm his mind. When that had failed, he thought a drink might dull his nerves. He had wandered from the Herald's Rest, the glass and bottle in hand, looking for a place to rest.

He had wandered into the garden, but he had looked upon the closed door on the far side of the garden. He stepped inside to the small chapel, the tall statue of Andraste standing just up a few steps, the colored glass of the windows dark in the deep night. The flames of candles that had been lit in prayer still danced, the only light in the otherwise dim room.

Cain sat, poured the glass, lifted it to his lips and then placed it back down. He looked at Andraste, her hands outstretched, palms up. Her eyes and face looked down toward her feet. She wore a pointed headdress that reminded him of the one Knight Commander Meredith used to don.

He considered the statue. Why was here head down? And what was she offering? She was the prophet, the holy bride, the savior. Who would she bow to, except the Maker himself?

He couldn't recall the last time he had stepped inside a chapel. He had shunned the shrines ever since Mae's Harrowing. The only time he had gone within the churches and chapels in Kirkwall after that was when he had to, to stand vigil during a ceremony or other orders for the Templars. When he had returned to Redcliffe after leaving Kirkwall, he had stood outside the chantry in the town, peering in through the open doors. It was not the same Chantry of his childhood. It had been rebuilt and it was always his mother's place.

He stood outside for many minutes before he left. He had met Mother Hannah in the market, not the church, the next day. She had been happy to see him after so many years. The kindly mother had survived Blight and destruction, but she aged poorly. Hannah had long, deep creases in her face now, her hair snow-white. He remembered the look of joy on her face when he told her he had joined the Order, then the equally troubled look when he said that he had left it, by choice.

"The Maker will always watch over you, Cain," Mother Hannah had said in parting with a weary but kindly smile.

When he returned to Skyhold, Cain had taken off the Templar armor for good, returning the bulky plate to the smiths for repair and reassignment. He told them to be sure to scratch his name from the gauntlet. Inquisitor Trevelyan had commissioned a new set of masterwork armor for him, in the Inquisition's make and colors. Dagna had promised to get her hands on it before it was done and Cain was excited - or was it frightened? - to see what she might do.

Cain had returned to his quarters after the war council, shooting a glaring look at the Templar that was hovering near the room. The young recruit scurried away.

It had taken him some time to find the right words to explain what had happened to Anya. She sat upon the bed, listening, a worried look upon her face as he recounted everything that transpired. She had so many questions, ones that he could not answer. How had it happened? Was he truly free of lyrium? Would he need to join the other Seekers of Truth after the war and be bound to the Chantry yet again? How could Cassandra be sure the red lyrium would not destroy him as it had Raphael?

"The Inquisitor needs me in Orlais, to use my new abilities to fight the Red Templars," he finally said after failing to answer Anya's questions. "I told him I would do it."

He knew he should have asked her before making that kind of decision. It was a dangerous assignment, the last one had nearly gotten them all killed. But he remembered the rows of red lyrium outside Penitence, the horrific Templars and red lyrium darkspawn. He remembered the twisting form of Raphael du Valen, consumed by lyrium. And he remembered Dominic's cold and lifeless body.

The suffering red lyrium brought needed to end. If he could help snuff it out, he had to.

Anya understood that too. She simply smiled and nodded. "I'm coming with you."

It would be another week, maybe two, before his new armor was completed and Skyhold had forces marshaled and ready to march to the Emprise. But as he had lain in bed in that night, Anya next to him, he could not find rest.

The door of the chapel creaked on its hinges and Cain turned his head as another man entered the room. The new entrant stopped and looked with some shock.

"Cain? Of all the people here in Skyhold, I would not have expected to find you here, least of all," Cullen said. "And that includes Varric, Solas and Iron Bull."

Cain snickered to himself. "I'm surprised myself," he admitted. "I can leave if my presence offends."

Cullen waved a hand dismissively. "You can stay, if you like."

Cain lifted the bottle in offering and Cullen took it from him. Cain lifted his own glass, clinking it against the bottom of the bottle and they both drank. The whiskey was rough, Ferelden distilled, and poorly at that. It burned the entire way down. Cullen lowered the bottle from his lips and coughed, covering his mouth with a fist. "That's dreadful," he said and coughed again.

"Tell the Ambassador she needs to call in a favor from the Free Marches, because this cannot stand," Cain agreed with a laugh as he placed his glass down upon the floor, still mostly full.

Cain and some of the other Templars had spent one of his birthdays in the Hanged Man, drinking good, smooth, strong Marcher rye. They had stumbled out of inn and made their way to the Blooming Rose where everyone chipped in their coins to buy him an evening with the stunning elven girl Katriela. He couldn't really recall what had happened after the door shut, only that he awoke the next day in the barracks back at the Gallows with a splitting headache, the small chamber still spinning around him. How he got there and how the Knight Commander didn't find out were miracles he would never understand.

"So why are you here so late at night?" Cullen asked when his coughing fit subsided.

"I might ask you the same thing."

"True, but I asked first," Cullen returned as he cocked his head and smiled, the candlelight catching the small scar on his lip and shining off the golden stubble that covered his cheeks and neck after another long day.

Cain sighed. It was another question he did not know the answer to. He looked up at Andraste again, that pointed crown jutting from her bowed head. "You were there, when Meredith…" He let the thought trail off. "How do you cope with all of that?"

Cullen snickered, taking another swig of the awful whiskey. His face twisted as he smacked his lips after swallowing down another gulp. "Poorly, sometimes, to be honest." Cullen took a seat on the floor next to Cain, placing the bottle aside as he rested his arms across his knees.

"After Ferelden, I was convinced that mages were the problem. They rebelled, summoning demons, killing each other, using blood magic." The Commander stalled, the memory still visibly causing him pain. Some of the sentries whispered quietly that some nights they could hear screaming coming from the Commander's bedchamber late at night. "I couldn't live in the tower after that. Knight Commander Greagoir sent me away to a small, pastoral church. But Meredith had heard about me, specifically sought me out. She said she needed me in Kirkwall, she needed a strong hand to help Kirkwall remain vigilant. Looking back, I probably shouldn't have gone. I wasn't ready to be back in the Circle.

"I brutalized the mages there. For years, like Meredith, I saw their misdeeds everywhere. Meredith crushed the mages. What other choice did they have than try to fight and escape from that? They couldn't breathe. They couldn't live. About a year, maybe two before the rebellion, I had become convinced it wasn't the mages. Maybe it was us, the Templars, that were the problem," Cullen said.

Cullen lifted his hand, pointing up the statue before them. "After Meredith's…" he paused, struggling find the right words before finally settling on just, "After Meredith, I came to realize that I wasn't there to protect mages _or_ to serve Templars. My oaths were sworn to the Maker, and to Andraste. So I once again looked to them, in a way I hadn't since Ferelden. The Chant of Light, when I recited the words and thought about them for myself - not the interpretations the Templars or the Revered Mothers told me - I found a great amount of peace."

Cullen placed his hand back down on his knee and gazed up at the statue, a small smile upon his face.

"That's it?" Cain asked. He had been expecting something more. Something more profound? He didn't really know what he was expecting, but he knew it was something more than that.

Cullen tipped his head back and laughed, a hearty laugh that he had not heard from the Commander in a long time. He trailed off, his head back and looking at the ceiling. "I suppose that's it," Cullen admitted. "I suppose I sound like some crusty Chantry philosopher now. But I am plus one historic atrocity on you, so I think I occupy the high ground here," he said, turning his head back to Cain with a smile.

Cain gave the commander a slight shove to the shoulder. "I suppose being lit on fire and having red lyrium crammed down my throat by a crazed Seeker doesn't count as an atrocity then?" he joked. "And I had a blood mage prowling through my head too, so I think we should call it even."

Cullen shoved him back. "If we're counting crazed Seekers, perhaps I should tell you about the interrogation _I _got from Cassandra in Kirkwall before she ever laid hands on Varric."

Cain laughed. Cullen laughed. These moments were few and far between, to be cherished.

Cullen shifted, pushing up from his sitting position as he changed to one knee. He waved to Cain. "Please, join me."

Cain looked at the Commander, his right knee placed to the ground, his hands clasped before him. He meant to pray. Cain hadn't, not once since Mae's Harrowing. The Chant, once beautiful and soothing to his ears, now only ever felt like poison to him.

But Cullen was a friend, one who had walked the same path as him. The Commander had broken free of lyrium and he carried on, the weight of the Inquisition's forces upon his shoulders every day. The Inquisition battled back the darkness and the madness and had become a beacon of righteousness and hope for all the people of Thedas.

He had suffered a great deal and survived. Cullen was a man worthy of his respect and deserving of his admiration. Cain could humor him in this. Cain had asked how the Commander had coped, so he owed it to at least try.

There was that voice in his mind once more, another quick phrase flitting through him that he could not recall hearing himself, but that sounded with the voice that he was sure was his sister. "_If nothing else, believe in yourself and your own goodness, and you will be redeemed for your shortcomings."_

Cain groaned and sat up, turning himself and went down on one knee. He locked his hands together before him, resting his elbow upon his bent left knee for support. "If I burst into flames, you'll have to explain to everyone that it was your fault."

Cullen laughed as he lowered his head and closed his eyes. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

There was a moment of silence, the only sounds were Cullen's measured breathing and the slight flickering noise of the candles before them. Cain shut his eyes, too, and lowered his head. Cullen began.

_O Maker, hear my cry:  
__Guide me through the blackest nights  
__Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked  
__Make me to rest in the warmest places._

_O Creator, see me kneel:  
__For I walk only where You would bid me  
__Stand only in places You have blessed  
__Sing only the words You place in my throat_

_My Maker, know my heart  
__Take from me a life of sorrow  
__Lift me from a world of pain  
__Judge me worthy of Your endless pride_

_My Creator, judge me whole:  
__Find me well within Your grace  
__Touch me with fire that I be cleansed  
__Tell me I have sung to Your approval_

_O Maker, hear my cry:  
__Seat me by Your side in death  
__Make me one within Your glory  
__And let the world once more see Your favor_

_For You are the fire at the heart of the world  
__And comfort is only Yours to give_

Cullen stopped, letting the last word of the prayer hang in the air as silence settled back over the room. The Commander lifted his head and opened his eyes, noticing that Cain had not moved.

Cullen looked to his right, the knuckles on Cain's hands white as he clasped them together so tightly. His arms were trembling, his chest still as if he were holding his breath. Cullen shifted, a little noise to alert Cain that he was done, but still, the man did not move.

Cullen reached over, placing his hand upon Cain's shoulder. "Cain? Cain, are you alright?"

Cain's hands shook slightly before him, his head moving slightly up and down. Cullen backed away, twisting his head around. The silence was broken by a slight whimper, Cain's chest suddenly rising and falling in a quick jerking move.

Cain's body rocked back and forth slightly, a dim white light shining between his hands, the light expanding and slowly begin to encompass his body. It was a slight, but bright shimmer, that seemed to wrap itself around his entire body.

Cullen could feel it, a spirit power flooding off Cain. It felt strong, calming and soothing, like nothing the Commander had ever felt before in his long career around Templars, mages and demons. It was incredible, miraculous, unthinkable as Cain kneeled upon the floor of the chapel, locked in prayer, shining.

There was a drop on the floor. Then a second. And a third.

In the chapel, at the foot of Andraste, amidst the chaos and darkness of Thedas all around them, a faith that had been tested, broken and scattered, was reborn.

Cain wept.


	40. Chapter 40

**Epilogue**

Sylanni steeled herself, a tense anxiety filling her.

She did not feel such feelings any more as she prowled darkspawn tunnels, engaging monsters in the darkness. That had become commonplace. But this, this was not familiar and this was not comfortable.

She strode into the edge of the small cropping of buildings, the villagers poking their heads out of their homes as the Warden entered. Sylanni swallowed, ignoring the gaze of the residents of Bricker's Break.

Rain was pouring down, water wicking off her face and soaking her hair. It was cold today, a chill wind coming across the Waking Sea. Sylaise was silent today, the fire goddess in mourning.

She knocked upon the door of the small hovel, smoke lifting from the vent in the roof. There was a shuffling as a man opened the door. He smelled of salt, his long beard and curled hair wet. He had just come from the sea, she could tell.

His face was haggard, but she could see the familiar lines, the same strawberry blonde color to his hair.

"Warden," the man said respectfully. "How can we be of service? Are there darkspawn near?"

Sylanni raised her hand and shook her head. She wanted to speak, but there was a knot in her throat. She was not sure how she could start. She looked over his shoulder, a woman inside and a small girl playing with dolls on the floor. They were poor and humble, good people built strong by their labors.

Just like their boy.

"I have news," Sylanni said. "About your son, Dominic."

The woman behind perked up at the name, rushing to the door to join her husband. She stepped beside him, her face painted with fear as she looked upon Sylanni's downcast eyes. Her hand covered her mouth, sensing the worst.

"What is it, Warden," the man said. "Out with it."

Sylanni reached into her pocket, pulling the small fishhook necklace from the pouch, lifting the broadsword and scabbard from her waist. She draped the necklace around the grip, the thin line falling down until it rested around the hilt. As they had prepared to turn Dominic over to the flames, she had recovered the trinket from him. He had been wearing it under his armor, the small hook dulled and twisted, turned into a small pendant that he wore close to his heart to remind him of home.

She placed the sword flat upon her hands, raising them slowly in offering, her head down. She looked at her feet, unable to look the man and wife in the eye.

"Your son gave his life to save mine as we fought within the cursed fortress the humans call Penitence," she said. Sylanni sniffled as she fell upon both knees in front of them, holding the sword high above her head as she dropped her head even lower in shame.

Dominic's mother wailed, crying out her son's name as she shrieked in mourning. The rain fell heavier upon Sylanni, soaking her through as she kneeled in the mud, the downpour falling across her. The rain masked the tears that ran down her cheeks.

The blade flew off her hands as Dominic's father smacked the sword away. "I told him this was a fool's calling!" the man raged. "His place was here, not running around playing knight."

"Eirik, no," the woman cried, her voice choked with tears.

"And what happened to you?" he challenged down to Sylanni. "You're supposed to be a warrior. Sworn to protect the weak. Where were you? Why did you not save my son!"

Sylanni lowered her arms, prostrating herself in the mud before him. "I failed him and I failed you," Sylanni said between her own tears. "I felt obligated to come here, to inform you personally. Your son fought valiantly, he died a hero-"

Sylanni was interrupted by a hard kick to her side, the boot planting in her ribs. She toppled on her side from the fierce kick, rolling in the mud and the puddles of rain. Dominic's father kicked her again and a third time, his boot connecting across her face.

Sylanni did not try to defend herself.

"Eirik! Please! Stop!" Dominic's mother grabbed her husband, pulling him back toward the house. He was hot with rage, his wife wrapping herself around his arms to hold him back.

"Just go, Warden," he said, his voice hotly. "Get out of my sight!"

Sylanni pushed herself back to her feet, her lip bleeding from where he had kicked her. She straightening, brushing the clumps of mud off her side. She bowed her head low, respectfully. "I am deeply, deeply, sorry for your loss."

He flinched as if he wanted to hit her again, but Dominic's mother pulled him back in the house, leaving the longsword on the ground in the mud and water. Sylanni left it, turning toward the exit of the town.

"Warden, please, a moment of your time," another voice said from a hut nearby. An aged man stood in the doorway, his trembling, bony fingers holding open the rough skin that covered the entry to his home. "Please, join me."

Sylanni stepped inside the man's hut, tiny and covered with reeds that he was weaving into baskets. He sat down on the pile of straw that was his bed, slowly lowering himself to the ground. "I apologize for the state of things," the old man said. His eyes were foggy and he did not see here. "So is the boy, Dominic, truly dead?"

Sylanni lowered her head sadly again. "Yes."

"Tell me what happened," the old man said.

Dominic had mentioned the story of an old knight, a warrior who had taught him a code to live by if he wanted to become a great warrior himself. He had mentioned the lessons when they conversed in Tarasyl'an Te'lan with such excitement and vigor, but tailed off, a sadness in his voice as he recalled them.

She slowly retold the story, filling in details as the old man requested. When she finished, the aged knight nodded with tears in his eyes.

"He did not flee from his duty," Ser Damon said. "He willingly gave his life for it."

"Yes," Sylanni said.

The old man smiled, although tears were running down his cheeks.

"Warden, if I may ask you a favor," he said.

"You may ask, ser," she said.

"Will you Join me?"

He asked it confidently, his old voice beaming with strength as he spoke the words. His body shook, not with fear, but the vibrations of his advanced age. He looked ahead, his eyes not blinking, blind eyes staring in her direction.

"You would not survive the ritual," she said.

"I know," Ser Damon said without hesitation. "I have run all my life. I deserted and shamed my name. I thought to pass on my knowledge to a young man, but now he too has paid the price for his duty. Yet I live on, day after day. Please, let me take your Joining. Let me die for a noble cause, doing a duty I have long fled from."

Sylanni looked at the old man, his trembling fingers and wrinkled face. She could feel nothing but pity for this old soul, a human who had long outlived his purpose and his honor in this world.

She reached to her pack, retrieving the darkspawn blood, lyrium and the tiny vial of archdemon blood. She mixed the draught, swirling the ingredients in a small dish, the lyrium activating as she spoke ancient ritual words as the liquids combined together.

She placed the small dish in Ser Damon's shaking hands.

Sylanni recited the words:

"Join us, brother. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that, one day, we shall join you."

Ser Damon took one breath, lifted the bowl to his mouth and elderly knight groaned in pain, his throat tightening as he choked. His old eyes rolled into his head, the whites showing as he struggled for air, the darkspawn blood poisoning and running through his body.

With one last gasp, the old man fell over, dead upon his bed. Sylanni gathered her dish and brushed her hands across his face, closing his sightless eyes.

His name would be added to the rolls of records in Weisshaupt, never forgotten. His lessons and influence, never forgotten. The one he inspired to greatness, never forgotten.

Sylanni stepped outside the hut, back into the rain. She looked around the small village, still hearing the cries wailing from the home nearby, watching the other villagers as they went to investigate what had happened.

She closed her eyes, breathing in the salty air.

"_In death, sacrifice," _she remembered.

There were still greater evils lurking in the world, threatening all living beings. She had sworn her life to seek out the darkness and destroy it. It was a calling, one life given for vigilance. Few would die so that many could live. Such was the way of things, such was her way. Few were willing to pay the price, as she had, as Dominic had.

She reached out into the hills, feeling the winding tunnels and the flitting minds of darkspawn. She turned, walking toward the cliffs, leaving Bricker's Break behind.

Her duty was not yet done.

* * *

She watched from the rooftop as the toddlers stomped through the garden.

The golden-haired boy was trampling tulips, while the small girl sat before the fountain, putting her hand in and out of the thin strand of water that dripped down from the marble vase, slightly pitched as if carefully pouring wine into a glass.

"Marcel! Oh Marcel, not the flowers," the young woman said. Her golden locks were curled, cascading across her shoulders and back. She wore white silk today, the soft fabric moving effortlessly on her body, wide, curving hips and high firm breasts. She had large, colorful eyes, full cheeks a lips that were colored in vivid red today. In the privacy of her own home, she did not wear a mask.

The young woman stood up from the stone bench where she was lounging and went to pick up the child and carry him away from his path of destruction. The little girl, tired of the water, waddled over, her arms wide open toward her mother.

Lina crouched behind the parapet, her eyes just high enough to spy down upon the garden. She was in Montsimmard on business, but not until tonight. The day was hers and she had some personal matters to attend to.

She could feel the heat upon the right side of her face where her cheek was marred with scars from the burns that would never heal. After Mont-de-glace, her once long and lustrous jet hair now grew in in patches. She had cut it close to her head, leaving only a narrow plume of dark hair down the center of her head that she tied in a tight braid behind her.

When she had returned to Skyhold after Penitence, none of the men looked at her the same way now. Her scars were hideous to behold, the light in her eyes was dimmed and the love and laughter she once exuded had frozen.

She had marched up the winding staircase to the rookery, ignoring the stares of the soldiers and merchants that stared from afar, only to avert their eyes as she grew closer.

At Penitence, she turned her face away, the heat of the blazing pyre in the Sea of Ash causing pain in the burns on the side of her face. But she turned also so that the other might not see the tears within her eyes as the flames claimed Dominic.

Lina regretted teasing him, manipulating him. He had never been anything but kind to her, gentlemanly and caring. He was quite rough, but the night spent with his mother and sister was like a storybook. It was the family that Lina had been denied, a loving household of support and caring. Dominic embodied that upbringing she had longed for and she had treated him so poorly.

The elven servant crossed the garden, carrying the small parcel wrapped in white paper at her side. "Comtesse, I have a gift for you. It just arrived."

"Oh? From who?" the young woman said, taking the small package from the elf.

"A servant dropped it off and she would not say, Comtesse."

She dismissed the elf, opening the small card attached to it. She pulled the card from the envelope and opened it, reading the short note inside quickly. She gasped, closing the paper quickly and looking around the garden. "Children, please, please run along. Why don't you go see if Erlina has made some cookies this morning."

"Yay, cookies!" the boy said and stomped his way toward the doorway, the girl in tow behind him.

When the children were gone, the Comtesse looked at the card once more and tore the paper away from the package, revealing a small book of poetry. She opened it, flipping the pages and stopped to read one of the poems. She was breathing heavily and pulled the book across her chest, shutting her eyes and inhaling deeply, hugging the poems to her breast.

Lina slipped away from the wall, a slight smile upon her lips.

"This shouldn't take too long," Alvin Mercier had said earlier that day as he reviewed the notes. "I will need to visit the gemseller to obtain more pearls. Orders from Mont-de-glace have been slow to arrive."

The maskmaker had a black beard streaker with grey. As Lina looked at him through the eyeslits of the blank, plain servant mask she wore over her face, she thought he did not look anything like his daughter. Perhaps she took after her mother.

"Thank you, messere," Lina said. "My lady will be very pleased to have it for an upcoming ball. My lady also wanted me to ask you, she had heard that you often collaborate with a local gownmaker, but she did not know his name."

"Ah, yes, of course," he said. "Alphonse Tureau. His shop is actually just down the lane. A marvelous designer and fairly priced. If you take your notes about this mask, I'm certain he can design a gown that would complement it wonderfully."

Within minutes, Lina was in Tureau's gallery, surrounded by dresses for sale. He was a bit younger than the maskmaker, his blonde hair carefully cut into a mustache and short, pointed beard. The charcoal pencil in his hands flitted over the paper, quickly sketching a design. "Yes, something like this might work wonderfully," he muttered to himself.

"That would be lovely. My lady placed her full trust in your abilities." Lina said as she handed over a deposit for the work. The clink of gold coins on the table was a waste of good money, but she never intended to make the return trip to pay the rest to pick up the dress. She was only here for information.

"Please pardon my curiosity, messere, but I have not seen your daughter around these parts in many months," Lina said. "I had heard that she had married into the nobility. She was always so pretty, I knew she would make a wonderful match for a young man."

Tureau raised and eyebrow, somewhat annoyed at the question, before he returned his glance to his sketch. "Yes, my Perrette married Comte Toussard about three years ago. A good young man."

"Oh my, I hadn't realized it had been so long ago," Lina said, trying to sound airheaded.

She had browsed the bookseller after, flipping through many books of love poetry, several salacious copies before finding one with subtle, sapphic intimations crafted carefully throughout. They made Lina blush as she read them, her face becoming flush as she read through the romantic verse. Lina had it wrapped and made her way to the Toussard manor in the city, sneaking quietly into the servant's quarters. She had found the young female servant and paid her a golden crown to deliver the book to her mistress in the garden, no questions asked. The young girl had fulfilled her orders well.

Lina had quickly written out the card in her fanciest script and folded it, sealing the envelope before she entrusted the parcel to the girl.

"_Perrette,  
__Although many years and many miles separate us, I have never forgotten our time together. I would give anything to feel your kiss upon my lips just one more time.  
__With my everlasting love,  
__Leonie Mercier"_

Lina descended the stairs from the roof, hoping that Harper would appreciate the gesture, wherever she was in the beyond. Lina knew the brief love the girls had long ago had been good.

The good things in the world needed to be protected and cherished.

As night blanketed the city, Lina crept into the servant's quarters of the vicomte's estate, stepping into the cramped dormitory with multiple beds stacked upon one another, the room barely large enough to hold the six servants that lived there. She opened a drawer, taking the servants' garb and quickly dressing.

She walked through the estate, her blank mask making her invisible in plain sight. She passed other elves who paid her no mind. She ascended the stairs, heading toward the vicomte's study.

"My master requires more servants, Treviere." The man spoke in a northern accent. Tevinter.

"I have told you, Demetrius, that this is a thing that must be done with subtlety," the Orlesian responded. "Elven servants are plentiful, but word will get around if I begin hiring too many in such a short period of time. My estate is not so large to need so many hands."

"My master is not nearly as patient as I am," the Tevinter said again. "Our excavation in the Hissing Wastes cannot be delayed any longer. Get me the slaves I need. I do not need to tell you the consequences if you fail."

The Tevinter walked out and as he crossed the threshold, Lina began to quietly follow him down the hall, her steps silent on the floor. As he reached the top of the stairs, her dagger plunged into his spine, the blade quickly shearing down through bone and nerve. His legs went limp under him and he tumbled down the stairs silently, arms, legs and neck all twisting at awkward angles. The Venatori mage left a red smear down the wooden stairs, his blood quickly spreading across his white vestments.

Lina quickly scurried back to the study, sliding the bloody dagger behind her back into the belt.

"What was that noise?" Vicomte Treviere asked as she appeared in the doorway.

"Your visitor slipped on the last stair and fell, my lord," Lina lied.

Treviere snickered. "Clumsy oaf. Can you stoke the fire? I feel a draft," he said as he swirled brandy in his glass.

"Of course, my lord."

She walked past him, grabbing the knife and shifting it around her body so that he wouldn't see. She poked lazily at the fire with the iron poker, tossing another carefully cut log on top. She began to hum to herself as she worked.

"Will you knock off that racket?" Treviere said, annoyed.

"Will you stop selling elves into slavery to the Venatori?" Lina responded.

She could hear the wooden legs of the armchair quickly slid against the floor. The vicomte stood up in a huff and turned, stomping toward the fire. "What did you say to me, you little bitch?"

Before he could close the distance, Lina pulled the trigger on the small, compact crossbow hidden beneath her sleeve, the narrow bolt lodging deep in his left thigh. The vicomte crumpled, his hands wrapped around the bloody puncture wound, the metal bolt lodged deeply in the large muscle.

Treviere had never seen battle and he did not know pain. He screamed and wailed, holding the bloody wound. "Fuck! My fucking leg! Help! Someone help me!"

Lina slid another bolt onto the slim crossbow, stepping closer and she pointed it down at his waist. "That first shot was about business, Vicomte Treviere," Lina said, her voice low and cold. "But it's come to my attention that you have raped several of your elves. I find that unacceptable," she said as she removed her servant's mask, revealing her badly burned face illuminated in red and orange by the fire burning in the hearth behind her. "So this shot is for my own pleasure."

Lina unloaded the second bolt into his groin, the bolt tearing through his masterfully tailored pants at his crotch. He screamed even louder the second time, his face twisted in agony and tears on his face.

"The Inquisition caught wind of your little slave trade," Lina said loudly, so that he could hear over his wailing and sobbing. "The Venatori are our enemy, you see. And I, personally, take offense to Tevinters and Orlesian nobles who think that elves are a commodity."

She was reminded of her brother, snatched up and whisked away by a magister. Gone in a moment, no one noticing, no one caring. Her life unraveled afterward and no one cared about that either.

"Please, please, don't kill me," Treviere pleaded, rolling onto his side, blood pouring from his leg and his groin onto his finely woven area rug. "I didn't mean to-"

Lina kicked him, driving the bolt stuck in his crotch deeper in. "You did mean to do it, you shit."

There were now several elves standing in the doorway, watching the scene unfolding before them. The vicomte had called for help and they had come. But Lina had been there the day before and easily bought their allegiance to her with a few coins and the promise of a better life serving the Inquisition. They had poisoned the household guards and left the doors to the estate unlocked for her. They had told her when the vicomte would be hosting his esteemed guest, late at night, when few prying eyes would notice a Tevinter mage coming in the front door.

Lina loaded a third bolt into the crossbow, pushed him over on his back so she had a clean shot and unloaded the shot into his other thigh. His screams of agony were music to her.

Nightingale had given her blessing to dispose of Treviere however Lina saw fit. A wild card. A rare gift from her merciless adviser. Other agents had been quietly spreading the word around the nobility of Orlais about Treviere's connections to the Venatori. When he turned up dead, the spymaster hoped the other nobles would get the immediate message.

Lina had originally planned to just cut his throat in a stylish manner and be done with it. But after the elven servants shared stories of the injustices they had suffered at his hands, she considered something a bit more dramatic.

"I'm not going to kill you, Vicomte Treviere," Lina said as she withdrew the small crossbow into her sleeve.

"Oh thank you, thank you," he pleaded between his anguished wails of pain, his bloody hands clasped before his chest, shaking wildly in thanksgiving.

Lina pulled a glass flask from her other sleeve and uncorked it, spilling the sticky black liquid upon Treviere. He covered his eyes and closed his mouth as she went on, splashing it across his body before she discarded the empty glass.

Lina went to the hearth, grabbing the poker again and began to knock the logs out of the fireplace, rolling the still-burning wood onto the carpet. She skewered a piece of wood and began to drag the flaming timber across the bookshelves, watching as the dry old books and their yellowed, crinkled pages quickly began to burn. As the bookshelf burned, she jammed the tinder into the garish blue drapery covering the window.

"What, what are you doing!" Treviere screamed.

"As I said, I'm not going to kill you, Vicomte," Lina said again. "But if you value your life, you might want to begin running."

She laughed inwardly, knowing the two crossbow bolts she had planted in either leg would prevent him from standing, much less running. She had emptied the bottle of runny pitch on top of him, just to make sure that as the flames crept across the room toward him that he would not escape.

She walked past Treviere, his eyes wide with horror and fear as he tried to drag himself across the floor, screaming in agony as he dragged the bolts jammed in his legs across the floor, searing pain and blood trailing behind him as he crawled like a helpless newborn.

Lina placed her servants mask back across her face and began to hum to herself once more as the smoke and flames billowed out of the library.

"Wait! Please, don't! Somebody help me!" Treviere cried uselessly.

As Lina descended the stairs, stepping over the bloody clump of Venatori at the bottom, the estate was filled with a horrified scream, loud and shrill. They were the sounds of a man burning alive, his last moments a symphony of blazing, burning agony.

Lina stepped out of the servants' quarters, into the alley, humming gaily to herself as she calmly left the burning Orlesian manor behind. The death screams of Treviere sent a delighted shiver through her. Perhaps Nightingale hadn't intended on _such _as statement, but what was done could not be undone.

The bad people in the world deserved to be punished.

* * *

The scarred sky was barely visible through the brush as the wheels of the wagon creaked noisily along the lane.

The Elder One was dead. The sky had been healed. Thedas was slowly but surely recovering from the brink of calamity once more. All of it seemed ages ago, although the nicks, scratches and reforged rings upon Cain's armor reminded him that it had not been all that long ago. Duty hung over his shoulder, but it had been many weeks since he drew it in battle.

Cain, Anya and the Inquisition had held Sahrnia for seven weeks before Trevelyan arrived with the might of Orlais behind him.

There was still work being done, but the Inquisition had served its original purpose to restore order. There were still battles being fought, rifts being closed, alliances mended, influence being garnered and spent. Commander Cullen had looked particularly well-rested when Cain and Anya left Skyhold for the last time, while Ambassador Montilyet had a line of diplomats and visitors lounging in the great hall all day, every day.

The battles had waned, the red lyrium throughout the world in check, at least, while many scholars studied to try to find a more permanent solution to the problem. The Emprise had been covered once, but day by day, Cain had done what he could to sap the crystals of their strength, pulling the darkness within himself and stamping it out. The land might never heal from its scars and there was more red lyrium than any one man was capable of extinguishing on his own.

Cain knew this. Trevelyan and his advisers knew it to. They had agreed not to enslave him to the Inquisition and had given him leave to go. He might have chosen to stay longer, if not for the missive that returned to Skyhold, his second boon asked of the Inquisitor.

There was only one man awaiting their departure at the gates that morning as Skyhold buzzed around them as usual. Commander Cullen stood, leaning casually against the wall of the gatehouse, snacking on his breakfast.

"How long have you been waiting there?" Cain poked.

"Long enough," Cullen said with a smile.

They embraced, years of mutual respect and admiration between them. It had been a chance meeting in the slopes of the Frostback Mountains that had set Cain upon this path, a desperate Commander leading an army from the mouth of destruction, taking a chance on a burned-out Templar. There had been numerous missions afterward, many lives saved in battle and vigilance as Thedas healed from the ravages of the Elder One.

The Commander had wanted to say more, but only patted Cain upon the back and then released. "Good luck out there," Cullen said. "You'll always know where to find us."

Cain smirked. "I'm assuming you'll be calling upon me long before I come back looking for you."

"I have plenty of tasks, if you're reconsidering leaving," Cullen said.

Cain lifted his eyebrow, holding his hand to his chin in a mock expression of consideration. There were hands in the small of his back as Anya began playfully pushing him down the causeway and out of Skyhold. "Good-bye, Cullen," she said, sticking her tongue out as she shoved Cain along.

The wagon rolled behind him as Cain continued down the walkway out of Skyhold for the last time. Anya quickly skipped back, giving Cullen one last hug and planting a platonic kiss upon his cheek. "Come visit us soon!"

Cain stopped, Anya at his side and the column came to a halt behind him. The wagon was loaded with supplies and the chattering of many families and workers walking alongside it quieted as they came to a stop.

His eyes took in the landscape before him, the round lake, the trees and tall grass, the overgrown, collapsing tower on the small hill to the north. Cain could feel the lump in his throat and tears in his eyes as he looked upon this land. Anya's hand grabbed his, her fingers intertwining between his own. He could feel the smooth, cool thin band of gold upon her finger as she held his hand.

"There it is," Anya said as Calen's Roost stretched before them. She leaned close, resting her head upon his upper arm.

"_Maker, it's beautiful," _Cain thought as he spied the overgrown mess before him. The land was draped in green, the shattered stone tower even more dilapidated than when he saw it last more than two years ago. He had come here on a whim, just to behold the place once more. He had found the place it ruins, but he had also found one scared and exhausted mage atop the tower.

He brushed his fingers through Anya's hair, remembering vividly the way she had slept so peacefully in the grass after their rescue. Their meeting had been luck. But he remembered Cassandra's words from Penitence those years ago. "_There is no such thing as luck, Sergeant. There is only providence."_

Cassandra now sat upon the Sunburst Throne, mending the pieces of the Chantry that had shattered. What had failed before, she tried to rebuild stronger. The Seekers of Truth, the holy order that she had served her entire life had been reforged with a new purpose. Divine Victoria had offered him a position within the new order and a new vision. To his surprise the message did not come as a demand, but an open-ended invitation. It was one that remained open, though Cain was not certain that someday he might not accept it, on his terms.

The Divine had also not pressed for Anya to return to the Circle, although there was no secret that the new College of Enchanters chafed her to no end. Anya associated herself with the free mages in name, but they traveled together with the blessing of the Inquisition, Trevelyan's word as their bond.

"Are you ready, Cain?" Anya asked as she watched the water of the lake slowly lapping upon the shore. The sound of birds and insects and the breeze through the trees was all music. The garden was peaceful, ready to be tilled, planted and bountiful for generations.

Cain nodded, the Chant in his mind as he squeezed Anya's hand and reflected upon his journey. That had ended. A new one began today.

"_Though stung with a hundred arrows,  
__Though suffering from ailments both great and small,  
__His Heart was strong, and he moved on."_

Cain turned around to the gathering of people standing around the wagon. Families, workers, surfacer dwarves and a few young mages. They had followed him from Skyhold, their own service completed as well. They had all contributed to the grand cause in their own way, he knew. They all had their own stories to tell. Cain stepped to the wagon, pulling the pole from the front of the cart where he had left it.

Cain stepped to the edge of the lake, driving the metal pole into the ground, letting the banner unfurl. The cloth caught in the breeze, the sigil of the indigo wyvern's head pierced with a golden spear waving gently in the wind.

It had been nearly a century since those colors had flown in this place. As the banner fluttered, there was pride in Cain's heart. Though the world was still wrought with darkness, here, there was only light and hope.

He placed his hands on his hips, eyes locked on the crumbling tower. It would be one of the first things Cain and his people would need to address. Anya was beside him, looking across the lake at the collapsing stones as well. "We made it, Bann Wygard" Anya said, testing the title upon her tongue for the first time.

Cain nodded and smiled speaking just two words in response.

"We're home."


End file.
